


It's a New Dawn, It's a New Day

by xsnarksthespot



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Bathroom Sex, Drinking Games, Fluff and Humor, I feel like Fluff needs a second mention, Language, M/M, Meet-Cute at an airport AU, Minor Violence, Past Death of a Parent mention, Past Miscarriage mention, Sexual Content, Snowed In, roadhead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis gets snowed in at JFK Airport in NYC and he makes a new friend. </p><p>Or rather, falls stupidly, ridiculously, head-over-heels for one.</p><p> <br/><i>“Remind me why we’re doin’ this again,” Porthos growled warmly.</i></p><p>
  <i><i>Because it’s an excuse to touch you</i>, Aramis’ unhelpful brain supplied.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Because it’s an adventure,” he said out loud.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have any experience with airports outside of the U.S. so I had to pick one stateside, and even then, I took some liberties for story-telling purposes. Also, I don't speak Spanish, so I generally try to avoid using it at all, but I did slip one sentence in here, so if it's wrong somehow, please please please let me know. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the read, but if you're allergic to fluff, you might want to have an epipen ready.

“ _All flights are still grounded due to inclement weather, including Norwegian Flight 7012 to Copenhagen. Looks like it’s going to be awhile. We apologize for the inconvenience. Please see the attendant at Gate 11 if you need help booking a hotel room near the airport. Thank you._ ”

The woodenly polite voice clicked off the gate intercom and Aramis heaved a long-suffering sigh. His flight had already been delayed for over eight hours. JFK was never really empty, but a vicious snowstorm was not making travel easy for anyone. Aramis had watched the length of gates gradually empty out as flight after flight was delayed, and now there was only a scattering of stubborn travellers curled up in various chairs across Terminal 1. Now that it was after midnight, most of the food venders and gift shops were closed as well. 

His stomach growled spitefully at that, of course. Because anytime his only option was ambiguously dated vending machine food, well, that was precisely when he’d lop off a limb for a decent steak. 

Aramis thought about putting his earbuds back in and just dozing away the next handful of hours to the delightful crooning of Nina Simone, but he’d already spent too long in an unforgiving chair and boredom was officially starting to be a serious problem.

He was already on standby, fat lot of good it did. The attendant had actually _laughed_. No one was going anywhere, and they damn sure weren’t getting to _Paris_ , via Copenhagen or any other city. Unfortunately, he’d spent nearly all his savings over his two week holiday in New York City and paying for a hotel room wasn’t ideal. He could try calling his cousin, Gabi, who he’d stayed with for a few days, but as their parting had been a little heated, he was determined to avoid that option.

It wasn’t his fault he’d gotten along so well with Gabi’s best friend or that their acquaintance was destined to be brief. Adele certainly hadn’t complained. In fact, most of what she’d said to him had fallen in the category of gratified moaning, so he really couldn’t understand what had Gabi so fired up.

A man dropped down into the seat next to him, abruptly knocking him out of his self-centered musing. The interloper didn’t say anything right away, just propped his booted feet on his rucksack, tucked his hands into the pocket of his blue hooded sweatshirt, and sank down into the molded plastic of his chair. Beneath the shadows of the man’s hood, Aramis’ surprised glance could only spot the curve of a nose, a generous mouth, and a bushy black beard that had probably seen better days.

Aramis swept his gaze across the dozens of empty seats around them and wondered if he was about to be ministered to by a down on his luck Jehovah’s Witness with nothing better to do.

“You realise you keep frownin’? Like you’re havin’ a very serious, very _silent_ argument with yourself and damn if you aren’t an annoyin’ twat once you get started…”

Baffled amusement flickered through Aramis’ eyes and swept down to tug at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Mysterious had a voice like thunder, the kind that rumbles pleasingly against window panes just before a lazy rain. It instantly made him at least thirty percent more intriguing.

“I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. I am charming and delightful, _especially_ to myself,” Aramis replied. It was a tongue-in-cheek lie, since he was harder on himself than anyone else, but that wasn’t the point. He just hoped the man hadn’t missed the cheeky tilt of his head with that hood blocking his view.

Or rather, he hoped that the man would remove the hood altogether, because if that mouth was anything to go on, his face should be properly appreciated.

Frustratingly, the stranger only flashed a crooked grin. Worse, that glimpse of teeth inspired a sharp burst of lust that surprised even Aramis. 

Damn it. Maybe Gabi had a point about how much of his thinking was done with his dick.

“In that case, I’m sorry...but I have to insist you prove it."

“Is that right?” Aramis chuckled.

“Mm. I can’t very well walk away without knowin’ the truth now, can I?” The man shrugged one broad shoulder lazily and reached up to tug back his hood.

For Aramis, it was a bit like unwrapping a gift that you thought you’d predicted, and were quite happy to receive, only to find that what was inside was actually a hundred times better than what you’d expected. 

The man’s dark curls were deliciously mussed. His brown-eyed stare was warm and curious, which offset the startling scar that cut through his left eye nicely. It was a captivating face. The kind of face that looked like it easily laughed, and maybe occasionally cried, but probably showed everything he was feeling no matter which way the wind was blowing. 

Aramis didn’t realise how long he’d been staring until the stranger’s mouth melted into a slow, cocky smile,.

The laugh that trickled past Aramis' lips was self-conscious, possibly for the first time in his life.

"So you’re sticking around? In the name of science?" he finally managed to respond, one eyebrow drifting upwards in time with his words.

His new 'friend' barked a laugh and the effect on his already handsome face was so bewitching that Aramis could do nothing but grin stupidly until his heartbeat stuttered back to a normal pace.

"Somethin' like that," the man smirked. "It's Porthos, by the way."

Aramis winced and covered his heart with his hand. "You’ve caught me at a disadvantage. I promise my manners are usually impeccable." He held out his hand, which felt a bit formal, but climbing into Porthos' lap was probably pushing it. "Aramis."

Porthos dropped his gaze to the hand hovering in front of his chest and smiled before accepting the offer. His handshake was firm and confident. Aramis wondered how he’d earned the callouses at the base of each of his fingers, but he resisted the urge to ask.

“Aramis…,” Porthos hummed, like he was testing how the word felt on his tongue. 

Aramis swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Good God, he was in trouble.

 

* * *

 

They spent the first half hour in easy conversation. Nothing too deep or too personal. Before long they were people watching, and then that turned into a live-action version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. It might have seemed silly, making up conversations for strangers too far away to overhear, but it was an amusing way to pass the time while still subtly getting to know each other.

After a few rounds proved Aramis spoke Spanish, French, and Latin, on top of English, Porthos chewed on his bottom lip and stared at Aramis for so long that he nearly begged him to stop.

Aramis learned that Porthos knew a thing or two about fixing things and he had to take a long swig from his water bottle just to focus on something other than the man’s hands. 

A pair of nuns helped Porthos discover that Aramis had a complicated relationship with religion, but a very simple one with _God_. 

They both learned that the other had a sense of humour that complemented his own. And very little shame to go with it.

But it wasn't all shallow pleasantry. Tension radiated through Porthos when they witnessed what looked to be a father giving his son a harsh talking to, and Aramis couldn't help but brush his hand over Porthos' clenched fist on the armrest between them when the father scoffed at his child's tears and manhandled him towards the waiting area.

The boy was left in a seat not far from them for a time, so Aramis snuck him a piece of hard candy and Porthos told him a joke involving a monkey in a hat. The child was still snickering as his father bustled him away.

When Porthos gave an impressive brickhouse of a man a high-pitched voice and had him rant in The Queen’s English about the sorry state of tea in “the Colonies” for several minutes, Aramis nearly snorted water through his nose. The heavy heat of Porthos patting him on the back eased the gasping laughter-turned-cough, but it also left an invisible mark between Aramis’ shoulder blades that itched for the next hour.

Eventually, they ended up at a pair of vending machines tucked sadly away in a barely lit corner. Porthos stood with his thumbs tucked in behind the top button of his jeans, his rucksack resting between his slightly spread legs. Aramis was pressed up behind him with his hands over Porthos’ eyes.

“Come on, then. Punch some buttons.”

“Remind me why we’re doin’ this again,” Porthos growled warmly.

 _Because it’s an excuse to touch you_ , Aramis’ unhelpful brain supplied.

“Because it’s an adventure,” he said out loud. 

“For you, maybe. I’m the one who’s gonna end up eatin’ a year old granola bar.”

“Be brave, Porthos. Have _faith_.”

Aramis rested his chin on Porthos’ shoulder and watched Porthos’ reflection smile blindly back at him in the glass of the vending machine. Finally, Porthos groped for the buttons and pushed a few until something banged into the bin below. Since he was obligated to remove his hands from Porthos’ face, Aramis compensated by pressing one to the base of Porthos’ spine and leaning down around him to pull out his prize. 

His prize being the saddest bag of peanuts ever to exist on this planet, apparently.

“Whoops,” Aramis deadpanned.

“ _Uh huh_.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover? They could be delicious!” Aramis smirked, leaning against the vending machine and holding out the bag for Porthos to claim.

Porthos swept an ambiguous gaze over Aramis before he took the peanuts with a grinning shake of his head. “Should make you eat ‘em.”

“You could _try_...” 

The challenge in those words seemed to surprise Porthos. He took a step closer, propping his forearm on the glass beside Aramis’ head. “You don’t think I’m strong enough?”

Aramis gave Porthos a thoughtful look, only slightly coloured by the man’s nearness. “I have no doubt that you're strong enough, Porthos. But I _think_ if I’ve learned anything about you these last few hours, beyond the fact that you’re good with your hands and you laugh easier than anyone I’ve ever known...it’s that you have a big, kind heart. And I have a feeling that you abhor a bully. So no, I don’t believe that you would force me to do anything I don’t want to do.”

For a long moment, Porthos didn't say anything, and Aramis worried he'd gotten too personal. He opened his mouth, mentally scrabbling for something to ease them back into shallow waters, but Porthos interrupted his thought process with a charmingly humble smile.

"Probably not," Porthos shrugged. His voice quieted as he dropped his arm away from the vending machine. “But I don’t want you gettin’ the wrong idea. I’m not some paragon of goodness.” 

“Then...what are you exactly?”

“A soldier,” Porthos said simply, like that explained everything. 

And maybe it did. The callouses. The respectful nod he’d given a man in uniform earlier. The way he moved and the way he seemed perpetually aware of his surroundings. And the look in his eyes, now, like he’d seen things, done things, things that he could never forget and had to sometimes work hard to forgive. Maybe Porthos did hate bullies. But maybe he sometimes felt like one, too.

“That’s one hell of a beard for a soldier,” Aramis finally whispered, tugging at the end of the beard in question and praying it was enough to erase a fraction of the haunted shadows that lingered in Porthos’ eyes.

Porthos huffed a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, well. Suffice to say, me and the army had a bit of a fallin’ out.”

“Is that why you’re in the states?”

“Partly.”

The lack of explanation earned Porthos an understanding smirk. Aramis was all too aware that he hadn’t earned any more of a revelation than he’d already gotten, and he wasn’t interested in badgering Porthos for details, anyway. Instead, he fisted his hands into the fabric of Porthos’ hoodie and walked him back a few steps.

“Well, then. If you’re done talking my ear off, Chatty Cathy, I suggest you cover my eyes and get your retribution for the peanuts.”

The slow-dawning, and unquestionably wicked, smile he received in return nearly got Aramis arrested for indecent exposure. Thankfully, his mother raised him better than that.

 

* * *

 

A little after five in the morning, when the gate attendant came over the intercom to announce that all flights were still grounded, Aramis and Porthos didn’t hear a word. A pile of suspicious snacks and a soda apiece had long since abandoned them to a sugar crash. Aramis was pressed against Porthos’ side and was using him as a pillow, oblivious to the jab of the armrest against his hip. Porthos had one arm loosely wrapped around Aramis’ shoulders and was snoring quietly against the waves of his hair.

When Aramis woke an hour later, it was to discover he’d buried his face in the crook of Porthos’ neck.

He smelled like gun oil and fabric softener and, bafflingly, just a hint of leather. 

Porthos shifted under him, bringing his skin into contact with Aramis’ lips.

Aramis sighed and drifted back to sleep, with Porthos’ fingers working their way into his hair and snow cascading endlessly passed the window behind them.

 

* * *

 

“Refill, boys?”

“Mm, yeah,” Porthos mumbled around his mouthful of pancakes, pushing his coffee mug closer to the edge of the table. 

“Pardon my friend’s horrid manners...Amy,” Aramis sighed after taking a second to confirm he’d remembered the waitress' name right by reading her name tag. He tilted his head up to give her his best bedroom eyes, if not out of habit, then because he enjoyed the blush that had raced across her cheeks the first two times he’d done it. “He meant to say yes, _please_ and thank you very much.”

Porthos snorted, his look both amused and a little bit judging. “Right. That.”

‘Amy’ laughed and filled their cups. “Mmhmm. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“We will certainly do that.” Aramis’ come-hither smile evolved into a twitching smirk when he found Porthos staring at him over the table. “What?” 

Porthos chewed slowly and swallowed. “Nothin’.”

“Liar.”

Chuckling, Porthos reached for the cream and sugar and proceeded to turn his coffee into something that only vaguely resembled coffee at all. “Just realisin’ you’re trouble, that’s all.”

“ _I’m_ trouble? I am the picture of innocence, my friend.”

Porthos laughed harder at that. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.” 

With a lazy grin, Aramis leaned back into his seat and let his gaze roam warmly over Porthos. “Probably not.” Before his thoughts could wander too far into the gutter, he picked up his toast and took a distracted bite. “What would you like to do next?”

Porthos pulled his fork out of his smirking mouth at such a leisurely pace that Aramis refused to believe it wasn’t purposeful. The heated look in his eyes only cemented his suspicions.

“I’m sure I’ll think of somethin’.”

 

* * *

 

Sneaking into an out-of-service bathroom without getting seen was harder than it looked. Not that Aramis was complaining when Porthos locked the door and pinned him up against it with two well-placed hands and the hot crush of his mouth.

No, when his mouth fell open under that onslaught, it definitely wasn’t to _complain_. 

Gripping him by the waist, Aramis drove forward until Porthos was forced to perch on a handicap bar built into the wall. Porthos laughed a little, in the back of his throat, but he didn’t break contact. If anything, he tightened his grip on the sides of Aramis’ neck and dragged his thumbs along the skin beneath his ears, kissing him deeper all the while.

Aramis shamelessly moaned into Porthos’ mouth and wedged himself tightly between his legs. His hands dropped to knead into the muscles of Porthos’ thighs, then greedily burrowed beneath the layers of hoodie and t-shirt separating him from skin. He hummed happily as all that hard, heated flesh flexed beneath his fingertips.

Porthos growled when Aramis broke the kiss, but it turned into a rumble of approval once Aramis pressed a biting kiss into his throat. Helplessly grinning at _that_ , Aramis scratched his fingers down the length of Porthos’ abs. 

“I can almost sense my cousin Gabi shaking her head at me from here,” Aramis panted against Porthos’ throat, even has his thumbs teased at the button fly of Porthos’ jeans.

Porthos tensed slightly, but he didn’t remove his hands from where they were curled into the underside of Aramis’ ass. He just sucked a kiss below Aramis’ ear and murmured a curious noise.

With his fingers tucked under the edge of Porthos’ jeans, Aramis leaned back and smirked. “She’s lovely. Really. So very… _responsible_. She simply feels that I lack restraint.”

“Ah.” Porthos flashed an uncertain smile and gently stroked his broad hands up Aramis’ back, settling in more neutral territory. “Are you hopin’ I’ll be the voice of reason here?”

“ _No_ ,” Aramis laughed. “God, no. I was just...I was…I didn’t...” When a coherent answer failed to find its way to his mouth, Aramis frowned. What _had_ prompted the thought? And why had a moment of self-reflection decided _now_ was the proper time to make an appearance? He could feel the hard curve of Porthos’ cock underneath his palm and he wanted him. In every way he could think of, he wanted him.

But the storm would end eventually. So what then? He would just have to watch him walk away? Go back to his own life? The life he’d been _perfectly satisfied_ with until this very moment, when it threatened to be a dull and torturous existence?

Good God, he was being ridiculous. He hardly knew the man. They’d masterfully avoided talking about their destinations and only briefly skimmed over their everyday lives. He knew Porthos was French, but not whether he lived anywhere near Paris. He knew he didn’t have any birth family living and that Porthos wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married and bunkered down with a gaggle of children in Montpellier.

The fact that someone’s marital status had never stopped him from enjoying a mutually satisfactory romp was _not_ lost on him. It just made him frown a little harder.

Porthos exhaled quietly and mustered up a sweet smile. “You’re doin’ it again.” He rubbed a thumb over the crinkle between Aramis’ eyebrows. 

“I’m...sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Dropping his hands to Aramis’ shoulders, Porthos nudged him back a step and stood up. “There’s nothin’ wrong with you. And you damn sure don’t have anythin’ to be sorry about.” Aramis retracted his hands from under Porthos’ shirt, but clenched his fingers into his hoodie in a burst of baffling need. Porthos covered Aramis’ hands with his own and dipped his head for a soft, undemanding kiss, like he somehow knew that was exactly what Aramis needed. “I didn’t introduce myself to get into your trousers, Aramis. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I would’ve very much enjoyed suckin’ you off in this tiny little broken toilet...but _still_.”

Aramis choked out a laugh, his skin heating to dizzying levels at that mental image. 

But something nameless still held him back.

Even still, he sank into Porthos and rested his forehead against the side of his throat.

“Come on.” Porthos wrapped his fingers around the back of Aramis’ neck and brought his mouth close to his ear. “There’s one of those massage places nearby. My treat.”

 

* * *

 

Sometime after two in the afternoon, they sat cross-legged on the ground, Porthos against the large window beside Gate 11 and Aramis across from him. They were playing gin rummy, but with a distracted laziness that made every hand take ages. Aramis wasn’t even sure who was supposed to be keeping score.

"...Magician," Aramis mused. He placed a card in the discard pile and looked up at Porthos through his eyelashes.

"Seriously?" Porthos’ face split into a wide grin and he made a sound halfway towards a delighted laugh.

"Mm. Much to the embarrassment of my parents, who were already dreaming of me becoming a priest, even at that age. _And_ much to the amusement of my sisters, who encouraged my reckless displays of _magical prowess_ with a passion reserved for gathering really juicy blackmail."

Porthos did laugh then, full-bodied and infectious, letting his head fall back against the glass. "Did you wear a cape?"

"I did. And a fine one too, I'll have you know. I made it myself." 

Being shameless paid off every time Porthos aimed that mad grin Aramis' way, but the softer smile he got for admitting he'd sewn his own cape as a child was worth more than Aramis could even fathom. That smile lingered in Porthos' eyes as he turned his attention back to the game.

"Any chance your sisters still have pictures?" 

“Ha!” Aramis flicked a card at Porthos’ chest. “Undoubtedly.” 

Later, Aramis would realise Porthos was moving a hand around, down behind his knee where it rested flat against the floor, and that really should have been suspicious, but Aramis-in-the-moment was too enamoured with the way Porthos kept staring at him like he was the only person in the airport.

“What are your sisters’ names?”

Aramis was a little surprised at the question, but pleased, too. Stupidly pleased. He smiled brightly and tried to focus on taking his turn rather than aiming moon-eyes at Porthos. “Éléonore and Sophia. El is the oldest. Phia’s the awkward middle child, or at least that’s what we like to tell her.”

“Which of course makes you the precious baby of the fam--hello? Hey, Éléonore, right? Sorry to--no this isn’t Aramis, but yeah, he is still stuck at the airport.”

Jerking his head up, Aramis’ eyes flew wide at the sight of his phone pressed against Porthos’ ear. Last he’d checked it had been safely tucked away in his pocket. He gaped dumbly for a moment, but then scrambled to his knees to reach for the phone. 

Porthos fell sideways with a laugh, casually escaping Aramis’ frantic hands. 

“I...as a matter of fact, this _is_ Porthos...He said that, did he?” Porthos shifted an amused and more than a little flattered look to Aramis, who was now hovering over him and pulling at the phone with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “Yeah, no, he’s right here. We were just talkin’ about how he wanted to be a magician when he was a kid and how his sisters were _so supportive_ \--ha! Yeah, I thought maybe you might have some pictures to send my way. For proof.”

Aramis abruptly abandoned his attempts to recover his property and settled for belligerently crowding close to the phone.

Éléonore’s laugh rang clear over the line. “ _Oh God yes, dozens. Did he admit to the cape? I bet he admitted to the cape. And just **conveniently** left out the part about how he usually wore nothing but his briefs undern--_ ”

“ _El_! Good God, woman. Have you no _loyalty_?!” Aramis groaned loudly, which only made his sister cackle maniacally at the other end.

“ _Oi, I was talking to your ‘extraordinary’ new friend. Don’t be rude or I’ll call Phia and make this a party._ ”

Aramis threw his hands up in the air and rolled off of Porthos to lay on his back with a huff. Porthos switched the phone to his other hand and shifted to his hip, spreading a palm across Aramis’ stomach with a never-ending grin firmly locked in place.

“ _He’s pouting now, isn’t he?_ ” Aramis could still, unfortunately, hear every word of his traitorous sibling’s affectionate mocking.

“A little bit, yeah,” Porthos chuckled.

“ _Typical. I’ll tell you what, Porthos. Send me a picture of the two of you together and I’ll repay you in kind._ ”

“Yeah? Alright. You got a deal.”

“ _And Porthos?_ ”

“Hm?”

“ _I’ve never heard him talk about someone he just met in that tone of voice before. Hell, I’ve never heard him talk about **anyone** in that tone of voice before. Be gentle with my baby brother, okay? He has a silver tongue, but he’s all burnt marshmallow on the inside._ ”

Porthos sagged in against him, tenderly, _protectively_ , stroking Aramis’ belly. Aramis had to close his eyes and take a steadying breath to avoid saying anything stupid and revealing in that moment. His sister was doing just fine without his help.

“You have my word,” Porthos vowed quietly.

“ _Good. Now get on that picture_.”

After he disconnected the call with a charmingly warm ‘yes ma’am, have a lovely evening,” Porthos switched the phone back to his other hand and pushed a button to bring up the camera. He scooted a little closer and buried his now free arm under and around Aramis’ neck before holding the phone over them.

“Come on, then, give us a smile,” he teased, nudging in behind Aramis’ ear to press a kiss there. 

Aramis turned slightly towards him with a haughty lift of one eyebrow. “If you think I’m going to _help_ you get those pictures, you are sadly mistaken.”

Porthos snickering against the shell of his ear sent a pulse of lightning down Aramis' spine, but he resolutely kept his face grumpy and his hands resting on his stomach, where he could still feel Porthos’ possessive touch like the lingering warmth of an electric blanket.

Unconcerned with the fact that they were stretched out on the floor of an airport waiting area in the middle of the day, Porthos flung a leg over Aramis’ knees and leaned in to press a frustratingly sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You sayin’ you don’t want a picture of us?”

Aramis made a vexed noise and rolled into the inviting heat of Porthos’ body. Burying a hand in his hair, Aramis hauled him into a kiss that was entirely too filthy for such a public place. He nearly missed the sound of the camera snapping a picture, but it was the none-too-subtle cough from the attendant at the gate a few yards away that yanked him back into reality.

“Whoops,” Porthos grinned. “Probably shouldn’t send that one to your sister. We’re most definitely sendin' it to me, though.” With that cheeky announcement, he tugged Aramis back in for a follow-up attempt. 

The end result was a picture of Aramis laughing with his eyes closed, his forehead pressed against Porthos cheek, and Porthos’ ridiculously toothy grin taking up half the screen. 

Aramis wondered exactly how crazy it was that he was immediately tempted to save it as his background.

They shuffled to sitting positions at the same time, resting their backs against the window as Porthos fired off an image text to El.

By the time she sent her treasonous reply, Aramis was drifting to sleep against Porthos’ shoulder. The vibrations of Porthos’ delighted giggling kept him from nodding off right away, but when Porthos leaned over to kiss the crown of his head, Aramis smiled and closed his eyes.

“I will have my vengeance, Porthos,” he threatened sleepily.

“Whatever you say, Marshmallow.”

 

* * *

 

“ _\--and they are clearing the tarmac now. Flights should resume within the hour, so please see your gate attendant as soon as possible._ ”

Dread sank into Aramis’ gut as he woke to end of that announcement. Porthos stirred next to him, lifting his head from Aramis’ hair and mumbling something incomprehensible. That sluggish growl inspired thoughts of waking Porthos from a night of steamy sex and tumbling lazily into round two, which only made his dread grow stronger.

He forced himself to sit up and pat his pockets to verify he still had all of his belongings. His phone had been returned to his coat pocket without him noticing - Porthos had nimble hands and wasn’t _that_ a thought he needed to avoid for the foreseeable future - and his wallet, passport, and ipod were still where he’d left them. He’d checked everything else.

“I suppose we should...go speak with the attendant,” Aramis mumbled after the silence had stretched out long enough for him to feel Porthos’ eyes on his profile.

“Yeah.”

“--Are you--”

“--Where--”

They both started speaking at the same time, and stopped at the same time too. Aramis laughed nervously and looked at Porthos, who smiled that soft smile again, the one that warmed Aramis through.

“Tell me you don’t live in Copenhagen,” Aramis demanded.

Porthos huffed a quiet laugh and climbed to his feet. “I don’t live in Copenhagen.”

Aramis kept his embarrassingly open and hopeful gaze on Porthos’ face as he followed his lead. “And you’re not married with six kids living on the southern coast?”

“Not married. No kids. Never even seen the southern coast,” Porthos dutifully replied as he swung his rucksack over one shoulder and tugged Aramis into his other side. “Your turn. Tell me you’re headed for Paris.”

Melting into Porthos’ side, Aramis twisted a hand into the back of his hoodie. “As it so happens…”

“Good,” Porthos grunted, visibly relieved. “Takin’ a hostage is dishonourable business.” He snuck a glance at Aramis’ face, grinning crookedly. “But I mighta made an exception for you.”

Aramis chuckled and tilted his head, as if he were mulling over the possibility in a slightly different context. Which he most certainly was. “I’d have made an embarrassingly willing captive, Porthos.”

“Mm,” Porthos hummed, tracking his suddenly hot gaze from Aramis’ eyes to his smirking mouth. “Food for thought.”

It was going to be a frustratingly long pair of flights back to Paris if he kept looking at Aramis like he was recalling the taste of his tongue.

Oh, who was he kidding? It was going to be a blissful kind of torture no matter what.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t wrong. Four hours closer to Copenhagen and Aramis was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Porthos had charmed a woman into giving up her window seat next to Aramis in exchange for his own a few rows back and Aramis had claimed a blanket to cover their laps as they dozed in and out of sleep. Now the lights had been dimmed across the plane and Porthos had his heavy hand tucked in between Aramis’ thighs, subtly rocking it against his groin.

“You...are...killing me,” Aramis hissed.

Porthos chuckled shamelessly, earning himself a “sssshhh” from somewhere nearby, but he didn’t pull his attention away from the night sky outside the tiny window.

“No idea what you’re on about.”

“I can’t take four more hours of this, Porthos. I’m good, but I’m only human.”

The hand between his thighs twisted to curve along the length of his achingly hard cock and then squeezed, stealing Aramis’ breath. “Too bad the toilets on these things are too bloody small.”

“It is...rather...unfortunate,” Aramis forced out between his teeth as he buried his face against Porthos’ arm and clenched anxiously at the hand covering his groin. “Please… _please_ , Porthos...”

Porthos stroked him one last time, snapping Aramis’ hips forward, and then set him free with a wistful sigh. “Gonna have to get you to beg like that again when we’re somewhere more appropriate.” Sputtering a laugh, Aramis threw an arm over Porthos and yanked him close enough to bite briefly at the side of his throat. The wrecked little groan he got for his effort was a glorious kind of revenge.

The only thought in his mind for the next ten minutes straight, though, was that four hours was an _eternity_.

 

* * *

 

They ended up stumbling into the bathroom of a tiny petrol station outside the airport in Copenhagen during their two hour layover. It wasn’t out-of-service and the lock was shoddy, but they could hardly be bothered to care as they frantically picked up where they’d left off in New York.

Porthos sucked Aramis off, as promised. Better than Aramis had allowed himself to imagine, even, since he dropped to his haunches, with his back resting against the door, and encouraged Aramis to fuck his mouth. 

Aramis curled his fingers into Porthos’ hair, his free hand flexing against the wood of the door with each groaning thrust. Porthos’ mouth was almost unbearably hot and each time he swallowed against the slick drag of Aramis’ prick on his tongue, Aramis gasped out his increasingly vulgar approval.

“Fuck, _fuck_. Jesus Christ, Porthos. God, that’s so good, so hot. You are so. Fucking. _Perfect_.”

He was usually better than this, smooth and well-mannered even in his filthier moments, but Porthos growled around him and his legs shook uncontrollably as he dropped his head against the door. 

What little finesse he had left evaporated in a guttural shout when Porthos dug his fingers into the half-exposed curves of his ass and urged him to thrust harder, faster, sliding his hands down under Aramis’ jeans to tease at his entrance until he obeyed. The only words out of his mouth from that point on were a string of Latin prayers and _oh-God-oh-God-oh-God_ ’s that he’d probably be apologising for later.

He bit his tongue when he came. It hit him hard enough that his vision swam and he might have collapsed if Porthos hadn’t eased him through it with the soothing brush of his hands over Aramis’ overheated skin.

When he came back to himself, he was pressed against the door and Porthos was panting roughly against his throat, like _he_ was the one who’d just had a mind-blowing orgasm. Aramis tangled his hands into Porthos’ curls and kissed him. He still felt weak and tingly all over, but that wasn’t going to stop him from showing Porthos exactly how much he’d enjoyed his ministrations. 

One hard shove and Porthos ended up sitting against the sink with a wolfish grin. 

Aramis took his time jerking him off, biting and licking at Porthos’ mouth and neck between slow, steady strokes. It was more than a little frustrating that he couldn’t strip Porthos down to nothing but skin and lavish every inch of him with the attention he deserved, but he made up for it by avidly taking note of everything that made Porthos groan and tremble against him. 

Which led him to the happy discovery that Porthos bucked hardest when Aramis murmured Spanish against his parted lips and swept his thumb over the head of his cock at the end of a stroke.

“ _Shit_ ,” Porthos grunted. “Do that again.”

Aramis grinned and licked at his bottom lip. “ _Ilegado para mí_ , Porthos.” Porthos dropped his head back against the mirror behind him with his eyes clamped shut. Begging in Spanish as he moved, Aramis pushed back enough to lower his head and suck the tip of Porthos into his mouth.

He was rewarded with the delectable sight of Porthos arching, crying out, and filling his mouth with the taste of his pleasure.

 

* * *

 

They were both fighting stupid grins, their clothes and hair in a telling disarray, by the time they rushed back through security and approached the gate for their next flight. They slept the full two hours to Paris, Porthos nearly drooling against Aramis’ arm and Aramis smiling into the mop of curls on Porthos’ head. No one had the heart to wake them until they'd been sitting at the gate for a full ten minutes and the plane was empty.

 

* * *

 

“ _Please tell me you’re finally in Paris and that you took that gorgeous grin hostage._ ”

Aramis laughed quietly into the phone held between his cheek and shoulder and shot a furtive glance at the man in question. Porthos was helping an elderly man collect his baggage, smiling and talking in a hushed, respectful tone.

“Hello to you too, dear sister,” he replied, clearly distracted.

“ _Oh my God, I can actually hear you smiling. You better bring him to your welcome home dinner or there will be hell to pay._ ”

“You’re going to jinx me,” Aramis sighed, though a smile still lingered at the edges of his mouth as Porthos flung a military-issue duffle bag over his shoulder and swaggered back over to Aramis with a grin.

“ _Please. Your incredible family is one of your best features, little brother. Tomorrow, seven o’clock. Bring wine. And don’t be late!_ ”

El hung up on him before he could muster up any kind of complaint, or ask for a ride for that matter, but that was pretty standard for their conversations. He immediately called back and she laughingly agreed to be there in twenty minutes before again hanging up on him. Glaring affectionately at the phone, he pocketed it and grabbed the handles on his two rolling suitcases.

“El will be here in a little while. I’m sure she’ll give you a ride...to your place.”

Porthos turned towards the doors with a shrug. “Don’t have a place. Planned on showin' up a friend’s and commandeerin’ his sofa until I found one. He got discharged at the same time as me and I’m sure he’s mopin' around his flat like a drunken lump.”

Biting his tongue lasted Aramis only as long as it took to get outside to the curb. “You could...stay with me?”

Porthos rolled an amused gaze his way. “You don’t waste any time.”

Aramis had the grace to look embarrassed, but it was a shallow bit of shame. He could imagine Porthos in his apartment. Too easily, in fact. All that broad-shouldered, grinning perfection sprawled out on his sofa, eating at his table, stretched out naked in his bed.

He was flushed by the time he sputtered out a retraction. “Right, sorry. Forget I--”

“Now hold up a second. I didn’t say no.”

Aramis laughed, closed-mouthed and bright-eyed. Porthos stepped closer, reaching up to graze a thumb along the bearded edge of Aramis’ jaw.

“It _would_ make stalkin’ you a helluva a lot easier,” he joked. “Hm. Two conditions, though.”

Raising his eyebrows, Aramis gave him an impatient look, pursed lips and all.

“One, you’ll let me cook.” Aramis’ face registered his surprise, and pleasure, long before he gave a regal nod. Porthos chuckled at that and then hooked his arm around Aramis’ neck. “And two, you’ll help me find my own place long before you get sick of me hangin’ around all the damn time.” 

Aramis couldn’t imagine that day ever coming, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. Instead, he pushed out a long-suffering sigh and wrapped his arm around Porthos’ waist.

“You strike a hard bargain, sir, but I can agree to those terms.”

“You don’t have any conditions of your own to add?”

“Mm. Under _no circumstances_ are you allowed to wear socks to bed. Communal showers are a plus. To save water, obviously.” He kept talking, to the soundtrack of Porthos’ quiet giggling. “Annnd, anytime you need space, you’ll take advantage of my spare room. No questions asked. Oh!” Clearing his throat, Aramis tilted his head closer and took on an extra serious tone, as if the next part were some kind of inhumane torture. “And you have to have dinner with my family. Tomorrow, to start, but likely often enough even after that.”

Porthos laughed a little louder and then deposited a smirking kiss to Aramis’ temple. “I think I can live with that.”

With a happy sigh, Aramis stepped around to face him. “I’m well aware that this is crazy. Just so we’re clear.”

“Yeah,” Porthos grinned.

“But…” Aramis couldn’t finish the thought, but then he didn’t have to. All he did was shrug both shoulders and smile, and Porthos grinned just that much brighter.

“ _Yeah_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Aramis settle into their new living situation, have dinner with Aramis' family, torture Athos, and then there's d'Artagnan, who probably shouldn't drink.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but hey, more tooth-rotting fluff?

Letting someone he'd only known for a day move into his home was completely insane. Aramis knew this. And it’s not like he could forget, when his sister rang almost immediately after dropping him and Porthos off at his flat just to tell him so. Éléonore used her _I’m not mum but I can’t bear to tell her what an idiot you are, so this will have to do_ voice. She contradicted herself halfway through (I mean, he’s beautiful and hilarious and, really, quite sweet--er, back on topic, _this is mental even for you_ ), but her tone eventually crawled up into ‘I just don’t want you to get chopped up and stored in the freezer’ territory.

Of course, she had to say it all to his voicemail.

“...What?” Porthos growled, lifting his head up off the tile to capture Aramis’ mouth again before he could repeat himself.

Aramis broke the kiss long enough to get out the words “I said”, but then caved to his own ridiculous self-control, or rather lack thereof, and slanted his mouth across Porthos’ again. The kitchen floor was cold and hard against his knees, even through the fabric of his jeans, but stradling Porthos made it impossible to focus on such minor details. How they’d even gotten here was beyond him. One minute Porthos had been leaning against the counter, saying something innocuous like ‘hey, I have this exact same kettle’ and the next Aramis had practically tackled him.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t _beyond_ him. It was just a touch embarrassing.

It had led to some scattered thoughts about putting the brakes on things. They’d only been alone in the flat for five minutes, for God’s sake. Fucking Porthos on the kitchen floor before he’d even shown him where the toilet was would probably set a new record for shameless sexual encounters in this apartment. Probably.

Maybe.

Panting brokenly, Aramis lifted his head once more and held Porthos against the tile with the hands he had clamped against the sides of his throat. “ _I said_ ,” Aramis repeated, snorting a quiet, slightly hysterical little laugh, “maybe we should slow things down.”

“I heard you,” Porthos chuckled. “I just thought you were jokin’ since you were the one who put us here.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You just--you had your hip against my counter and this look on your face! Like you were just so….so….so bloody _pleased_ to be here.”

Warm hands drifted down Aramis’ back and then out from under his shirt, and he had to bite his lip not to immediately take back that stupid thing he’d just said about slowing things down. Slowing things down. Good God, what was he thinking. _Speed things up_.

“I _am_ bloody pleased to be here.” Porthos’ smile was slow and amused, but there was something cautious in his eyes. He was probably wondering if Aramis was going to throw a wrench in the situation every other time they touched each other. Aramis frowned and dropped his head to kiss Porthos again, this time just a gentle press of his lips. 

“Please believe me when I tell you that I very much want to strip you naked and check off everything on a long list of filthy things I’ve thought about ever since you pulled off your hood in the airport.”

Porthos huffed a laugh. “Alright. But…?”

Sighing, Aramis climbed off of Porthos and slumped against a cupboard. “ _But_ , I want it to be right.”

“...Right,” Porthos echoed, eyebrows lifting as he smoothed his hoodie back down over the stretch of his stomach and sat up.

“Yes,” Aramis smirked. He knew he was being ridiculous - they’d already had quite the layover in Copenhagen after all - but he could’t seem to stop himself. “ _Right_. Not a sloppy tumble on the kitchen floor before I even make you feel welcome in my home.”

A tilt of Porthos’ head and a lopsided smirk came before his cheeky return. “I think I’d feel pretty damn welcome gettin’ fucked five minutes in the door. I’m just sayin’.”

Aramis quietly laughed and reached out to curl his fingers inside the neckline of Porthos’ hoodie, pulling him forward until their foreheads touched. Before Aramis could say anything about how terrible his relationship record was and how badly he wanted this to work, Porthos hooked a hand around his neck and nuzzled their noses together. 

“I can take things as slow as you want, Aramis,” he whispered warmly. 

With a utterly charmed exhale, Aramis pressed a hand to Porthos’ cheek. After a few seconds of sitting there, sharing each other’s breath, he felt the need to add, “Not glacier slow, just so we’re clear.”

Porthos snickered.

“ _Proper dating_ slow,” Aramis clarified. Not that he really had any idea what that was. Still. He tilted his chin down, giving Porthos a look that was meant to say ‘I’m serious, don’t go iceberg on me’ but probably just came off as a flirtatious stare.

Easing back, Porthos climbed to his feet and tugged Aramis up to his. “Ooh. I get it now….You want me to woo you,” he teased, grinning unapologetically.

“Ha. Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.” 

Porthos was quiet for a moment, long enough that Aramis considered backpedalling through his sarcasm as fast as he could, but eventually Porthos stepped into Aramis’ space and cocked his head to the side, smiling with lazy grace. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh my God....you think I’m going to cave,” Aramis smirked with the abrupt realisation, a touch of mock-insult in the tone of his voice.

“Oh, I _know_ you’re gonna cave,” Porthos laughed. What little pretend outrage Aramis had managed to muster scattered to the wind as that delicious laugh echoed through his small kitchen. He spent the next few moments simply staring at Porthos’ mouth. When Porthos caught on, he wet his lips and beamed a dimpled grin. 

Aramis’ mouth dropped open slowly, but all that came out was a pathetic little huff of an exhale.

Shit. He was _absolutely_ going to cave.

 

* * *

 

“Tie? No tie? I should mention that I have a love/hate relationship with ties,” Porthos grumbled, tugging at the collar of his borrowed button-down. “I like the way I look in them, but after an hour of wearin’ one, I’d give my left nut for a time machine just so I could go back and kill the fucker who invented ‘em.”

Chuckling from where he was perched on the end of the bed, Aramis pulled on his second shoe and stood. “That is quite the sacrifice considering it might be difficult to find _one_ culprit. But I suppose you could start with King Louis XIII since he’s the first one who made them a popular fashion accessory.”

Porthos quirked an eyebrow at him. “You just had that information floatin’ around in your head?”

“I’m quite good at trivia games.” Aramis blamed Porthos entirely for the fact that he was preening under that fascinated stare.

“Well, that’s surprisin'. Because you’re shit at answerin’ questions.”

Smothering a laugh with the hand he smoothed over his mouth and beard, Aramis eyed Porthos up and down with an exaggerated look of appraisal. The thought of Porthos wearing a tie to meet his parents made Aramis’ heart clench in his chest. Just as their eyes caught, and Porthos did that one-sided smirk of his, Aramis heard the chorus of Headstrong drift up from Porthos’ back pocket.

“Hold that thought. I need to take this,” Porthos grinned. He dug his mobile out and answered it without looking at the screen. “It’s about damn time. Did’ya have to crawl out from under a pile of empty bottles?” Whatever the person on the other end said inspired the ghost of an embarrassed smile, and Porthos flicked his warm gaze to Aramis before replying. “Yeah. Well. Special circumstances. You gonna help me get my stuff out of storage or not?”

Aramis didn’t feel like he was spying exactly, but he did shuffle on his heels and shift his eyes away from Porthos’ smiling face. Which frankly took a stupid amount of effort.

“Yes, _tomorrow_. When was the last time you looked outside? Even if I could get into my unit this late, we’ve got...plans.” The strange pause before the word plans brought Aramis’ gaze back to Porthos, but he’d turned away enough that Aramis couldn’t read his expression. “Alright, I’ll be there at ten….fine, noon, but you better be halfway human. If I have to throw your sorry arse in the shower, I’m gonna be cranky.”

Even from his limited vantage point, Aramis could see the grin that overtook Porthos’ mouth. “Yeah, yeah. I missed you, too,” he teased. With that, he pulled the phone away and laughed at the screen. “Prick hung up on me.”

“He should meet El,” Aramis drawled.

Porthos shivered comically and choked on a laugh. “No, no. Not until I get him out of his funk. As much as he _ever_ gets out of his funk, anyway. One awkward family meetin’s enough.”

That phrasing lifted Aramis’ eyebrows and brought him slowly over to Porthos’ side. “Maybe...this was a bad idea...”

“Was it?” Porthos seemed to try valiantly to find something in Aramis’ face, but must have come up empty, because he winced and dropped his eyes to the floorboards. “I...I don’t have to go. If you don’t want m--”

“Nono, that’s not what I meant.” Curling his fingers gently around Porthos’ bicep, Aramis leaned in to kiss him right behind the ear and stayed there, just breathing in the freshly washed scent of his hair. He’d had to use Aramis’ shampoo and it felt intimate in a way that warmed Aramis’ skin far more than it should have. He forced himself to give the man some breathing room and leaned back. “If I had my way, I’d cart you around to everyone I’ve ever even _spoken to_ , Porthos. Because all of their lives would be infinitely better having met you.”

Surprise swam through the bronze depths of Porthos’ eyes, and his smile was small, but adorably bashful. “Flatterer.”

“That’s just a fact,” Aramis announced. Taking Porthos’ face in his hands, he made sure their eyes were locked before explaining himself. “I’m just beginning to pay attention to how fast this all is. How unfair it is of me to expect you to meet my parents two days after meeting _me_. The last thing I want to do is scare you off.”

Porthos lifted his eyebrows and pushed forward in Aramis’ grip to kiss him at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t scare that easily, Aramis. I just...I get stupid around parents. Tongue-tied. Self-conscious as hell. It’s ugly.”

Dropping his hands to brush over Porthos’ shoulders, Aramis smirked. “I have a hard time imagining you tongue-tied. But, if it helps, I thought I could introduce you as my new friend who has just returned to Paris and could use a home cooked meal.” He paused and squinted one-eyed at Porthos. “So that there’s no...pressure.”

Porthos chuckled close-mouthed, likely at the ridiculous face Aramis was making, then he gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good. Then no tie.” Aramis ran his gaze down over Porthos’ chest. “Hm. In fact, take that off.” The smug twitch of Porthos’ mouth earned him a chuckling eyeroll. “I have a v-neck cashmere sweater that’s too big for me, that’s all.” With a shrug, Porthos slipped off the button-down and waited shirtless in black jeans next to the full-length mirror. If Aramis took his time finding the sweater in question, it was purely coincidental and had absolutely nothing to do with the half-dozen lingering stares he sent over his shoulder. 

Of course, once Porthos pulled on the sky blue and, frankly, sinfully soft sweater, Aramis regretted his life choices. He regretted them so hard. 

Apparently he was silent for awhile - that’s what happens when you forget how to breathe - because Porthos half-turned, running a hand down over fabric that clung nicely to the hard planes of his chest.

“Good?” he asked.

“Good?” Aramis parrotted dumbly. “More like _Good God Almighty_.”

Porthos laughed, clearly pleased, and then leisurely strolled past him in search of his shoes. He paused just long enough to lean into Aramis’ space and the look he flickered back and forth between Aramis’ intent stare and his lips was nearly enough to crumble all of Aramis' good intentions right then and there. 

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’ll spend all of dinner daydreamin’ about crawlin’ under the table to take your cock in my mouth.”

Aramis half-laughed, half-whimpered, his eyes clamping shut. “You...are a terrible person.”

Porthos grinned. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me…” 

The quietly spoken outburst drove the table into silence. But only for a moment. The look of blatant adoration on Porthos’ face, combined with his colourful response to finding out Aramis was a neonatal nurse, quickly had Aramis’ sisters trembling with laughter. His parents started chuckling shortly after. Aramis blushed and nudged his knee against Porthos’ under the table.

“Shit. I mean…. _sorry_ ,” Porthos mumbled with a mortified smile. “We hadn’t, uh....gotten to what he did for a living.”

“I have been telling him for years, he should have been a surgeon. He has the hands for it. But he always says…”

“I like caring for the babies, papá,” Aramis finished smoothly, smiling at his father, who smiled wryly back and leaned forward to shake a fork at Aramis.

“What he really means is, I like lazy thirty-five hour work weeks, flirting indiscriminately… _and_ caring for the babies, papá.”

That got everyone laughing again, especially when Aramis shrugged. It was an old “argument” and his father likely only teased him again now because he was irritatingly perceptive. Not that he needed to be. Aramis hadn’t done a very good job of hiding his infatuated glances every time Porthos made his family smile or laugh, and he was painfully aware of how often he’d touched him unnecessarily. Like now, when he brushed his forearm against Porthos’ and flashed a little smile at him. Porthos returned the shy smile with one of his own and took a bite from his plate.

They didn’t ask what Porthos did for a living. Aramis texted them all earlier with a carefully worded request not to dig for details, to simply let his _friend_ enjoy a comfortable meal without feeling like he was being interrogated. And yet...

“Do _you_ like babies, Porthos?”

Aramis choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken. “... _Mamá_ , please.”

“What? I am only curious.” His mother smirked at him, _smirked_ , and Aramis wanted to crawl into a hole, but also, he loved her desperately. She was ridiculous and without shame - she’d given him wide eyes and a dorky double thumbs up behind Porthos’ back when she’d first laid eyes on him.

There were a few years when she hadn’t been able to understand that Aramis might not be cut out for a heterosexual stereotype of a life, with the picket fence and the wife and the 2.5 kids. This was years after Isabelle, and the heartache that followed, but still. There’d been a lot of headbutting over the subject, and sad eyes. God, the dejected eyes of his mother. He winced in his seat, just thinking about them. Now, she seemed perfectly satisfied just trying to find him a person who would take care of him when he was sick, hold him when he was sad, make him laugh until he was old and grey. And if they found a way to bring more grandbabies into her life, all the better.

“It is a harmless question, mijo. Stop sweating and let him answer.”

Sophia snickered at the end of the table and whispered something to El that made her cackle. They both received Aramis' affectionate glare from across the table top.

“Matter of fact, I love babies.” Porthos must have felt Aramis’ stare. Must have. He was practically burning two holes into that beautifully dimpled profile. “Love kids, in general. Thought about bein’ a teacher when I was younger. Might...think about it again.” 

“Does anyone want pie?” Aramis blurted out. “Porthos, will you help me in the kitchen?”

Porthos glanced up at him, looking startled and amused by the strangled outburst. Or maybe it was the way Aramis had exploded out of his seat like his backside was on fire.

“Yeah. Yeah, course.”

Once they were alone in the kitchen, Aramis pulled Porthos out of view of the dining room and cornered him into the small space between the pantry and the door that led back down the hall to the entryway. Digging his hands into the buttery softness of that blasted sweater, he pushed in to kiss Porthos as thoroughly as he could manage without scandalising his parents with the sound of his own moaning.

Later, he would think back on that moment and realise that kiss was a worshiping prayer - _please, please let me keep you_ \- as much as anything else. At the time, though, he was just grateful El and Sophia hadn’t decided to stomp in after them to tease him mercilessly.

With their lips still open, hovering a breath apart, the corner of Porthos’ mouth curled upwards. “If I’d known pie was a euphemism, I’d have begged for some a half hour ago.”

Aramis chuckled, unable to resist nosing up under Porthos’ jaw. Porthos curled a heavy hand loosely into his hair and the sense of peace, of _being home_ , was so strong it made Aramis’ head spin. He had to remind himself that he’d only known this man for two days. _Two days_. There were thousands of questions unanswered and likely dozens of imperfections to find. Eventually. 

But that only made him nuzzle a little harder into Porthos’ throat. He would enjoy finding Porthos’ supposed flaws. He would enjoy that very much.

The truly startling part was that he wasn’t afraid of Porthos’ discovering his. 

“Oh my God. Where’s the bloody pie?!” El shouted obnoxiously from the other room.

“You are the absolute _worst_ ,” Aramis bellowed back. “Have _patience_ , traitor.”

Porthos let his head fall back against the wall and laughed until only a wheezing sound came out.

 

* * *

 

There was a human being under that blanket, Aramis was sure of it. But, by the sounds coming from underneath, it sounded more like a dying animal. 

“Quit your moanin’ and come out from there.” Porthos leaned over the arm of the sofa and jerked off the blanket. Suddenly exposed, and seemingly blinded, the man rolled his face into the cushions and cursed. “None of that either. Coulda been presentable by now. Instead, you get to make a new friend lookin’ like somethin’ your cat sicked up.”

It wasn’t an entirely accurate insult, but it wasn’t far off the mark. The man’s hair was a defiant mess, his beard overgrown, and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them more than just the one night. The aforementioned cat, a gorgeous grey creature with huge amber eyes, sauntered up over his crumpled body and meowed at Porthos. He dutifully picked her up and murmured lovingly when she rubbed her head up under his chin.

Aramis felt like he was two seconds from melting into a puddle of warm goo on the floor.

“Ninon, Aramis. Aramis, Ninon.” Porthos scritched the cat’s neck and smirked at Aramis. “The only female who puts up with Athos for more than five minutes at a stretch. She seems to find his grumpiness charmin’. But then, he does spoil her rotten.” Lifting his eyebrows in an unspoken question, Porthos held the cat out towards him, and smiled, when Aramis happily accepted the purring gift. “Be nice to this one, you feisty minx. I’d like to keep ‘im.”

 _Warm_. _Goo_.

Thankfully, Porthos turned his attention back to Athos before Aramis could embarrass himself. He bent over, grabbed Athos’ arm and pulled him up into a fireman’s carry with ludicrous ease. Athos sputtered something that was probably an indignant complaint, but didn’t struggle. He did lift his head up to squint at Aramis, though.

“Hi there,” Aramis smirked.

Athos grunted and let his cheek fall back against Porthos’ arm.

Spinning around to face Aramis, Porthos gave him a quick kiss on the jaw. “Five minutes, yeah? He might even scrape together actual words.”

Aramis chuckled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

 

* * *

 

Athos did eventually speak to Aramis, between getting thrust into a cold shower and carrying the last few items Porthos needed out of storage up to Aramis’ flat. 

The first was a dry ‘hello’, after he’d stared at Aramis for an unnaturally long time, wet hair dripping into his blue-green eyes. Aramis wouldn’t classify what came after as any sort of warming up exactly, but Athos’ mouth twitched on occasion and Porthos seemed giddy when the man belligerently grumbled, “Christ. It’s like you special ordered him.”

By the time Athos was standing in the middle of his living room, turning in a slow circle to inspect the many framed photos on the walls, Aramis was convinced he was just a broken-hearted sort who neither wanted nor needed to be handled with kid gloves. 

“If you insult my photography, I may never recover,” Aramis warned as he moved into the kitchen to fetch them both a glass of water.

“I…” Aramis could almost feel the two men share a glance behind his back before Athos tried again. “It’s...adequate.” 

With a chuckle curling his lips, Aramis turned around to find Porthos shoving Athos lightly in the shoulder. He started to tell him it was unnecessary, but Athos smiled at Porthos the way stoic people only smile at the ones they truly can’t live without. Like even a stifled laugh was hard work, but for this one person, they could manage it. 

It stopped Aramis in his tracks.

After the brilliance of that smile faded back into a neutral expression again, Aramis finished walking towards them. “My God. You almost looked like a real person there for a second,” he teased.

Porthos barked a laugh at that and took the glass Aramis held out to him with a grateful twinkle in his eye. Aramis was fairly certain the gratitude had nothing to do with the water. 

“Almost,” Athos said drolly.

“This one’s my favourite, by the way. Meant to say so earlier.” Porthos gestured towards a picture of Aramis’ mother playing piano, smiling lovingly at his father where he was leaning over the top of the instrument with a dopey grin on his face. In other words, it was embarrassingly sentimental. 

And easily his most beloved photo of the dozens that had decorated the flat ever since he’d tortured his family with his amateur photographer phase several years back. 

“Have I mentioned how very much I like you?” 

Porthos sent a cheeky smirk across the room. “How much is that exactly?”

“Ugh,” Athos sighed, casting his eyes towards the ceiling. Before he could flee right out the door, which wouldn’t have surprised Aramis in the slightest, Athos was hooked around the neck by one of Porthos’ arms and pulled into a hip-to-hip hug that nearly lifted the poor man off the floor. “You’re both ridiculous. I’m leaving,” Athos grumbled. 

“Are not.”

“Am too.”

“Gentlemen,” Aramis laughed, stepping up in front of them to clap them both on opposite shoulders. “This is my last night without a 7 a.m wake-up call for awhile. Might I suggest we order some takeaway so we can start drinking and still pretend we’re responsible adults?”

Athos calmed under Porthos’ unrelenting grip and Porthos flashed a knowing smirk.

“Fine,” Athos muttered. “I’ll even pay as long as you two don’t burst into song.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Porthos nearly shouted, pointing across the small circle at Athos like his friend had committed a crime. A hilarious crime, but a crime nonetheless. 

They’d been drinking quite a while. Aramis’ next-door neighbour, d’Artagnan, had followed the Indian food delivery up from the courtyard and invited himself into their too-early-in-the-evening indulgence. Since he was rather fond of the boy, Aramis welcomed him with a broad grin and open arms. What he hadn’t expected, however, was that d’Artagnan would eventually pick a fight with Athos over a carton of shrimp tikka masala and not ten minutes later be leaning against his shoulder making moon-eyes at him.

The lad could _not_ hold his liquor. Or his cards, apparently. They hung half-exposed from his hands as he still slumped against Athos, who not only appeared to have accepted this strange new reality, but had even smirked _several times_ at things the drunken twenty-something had merrily babbled up at him.

It was like watching a puppy fall in love with a statue. And the statue, somewhat reluctantly, patting the dog on the head.

“Porthos…” Athos sighed.

“Don’t…,” Porthos copied Athos sigh, albeit with a bit of dramatic interpretation, “... _Porthos_ me.”

“You were supposed to be distracted by Aramis.”

“Stop stallin’ and show us the bloody cards.”

Athos grimaced and flipped the three cards he’d played, revealing they were not in fact three fives, as Athos had claimed they were, but a two, a ten, and a jack.

“Shot!” Porthos and Aramis called in unison, laughing. d’Artagnan chimed in with a quietly slurred _what, who’s been shot_ and Athos glared stonily at Porthos. “You know how I feel about tequila.”

“Uh huh. S’why I picked it,” Porthos grinned. A bit of scuffle followed, in which Athos threatened to tell Aramis about ‘that time in Brussels’ and Porthos acted as if he was simply going to pour the liquor down Athos’ throat. Eventually, Athos stopped halfheartedly flailing and laughingly accepted his punishment.

“Blegh. Next time we’re doing this at my house. With the good brandy.”

“Only if you do in fact spill about Belgium,” Aramis countered, eyebrows lifted pointedly.

“ _Oi_ \--”

“--Deal,” Athos said, just loud enough to be heard over Porthos’ squawk.

Smiling slowly and without an ounce of regret, Aramis took a sip of his beer.

“Hold up a damn second.” d’Artagnan leaned forward into the circle and wobbled his hand in the approximation of a wave, trying to capture their attention. “ _Who’s been shot_??”

 

* * *

 

Once Porthos had taken Athos home in a taxi, and Aramis had seen d’Artagnan safely tucked away in his bed next door, the two men collapsed down into the sofa in a haphazard sprawl. Aramis hooked his leg over Porthos knee and slouched against the armrest. Porthos turned his head slowly towards him and rested his hand on the inside of Aramis' thigh, just leaving it there as a heavy, hot weight.

“Glacier,” Aramis smirked.

Sliding his hand higher, so that it curled perfectly into the crook between Aramis’ thigh and his swiftly more interested cock, Porthos leaned over to graze his teeth against Aramis’ throat, growling one heated word in reply. 

“ _Cave_.”

Aramis huffed a laugh and tangled his hand into Porthos’ hair. “Meet me somewhere in the middle? At least until we’re sober.”

Porthos rolled over on top of him and slotted in between his thighs just as easily as he’d slotted himself into Aramis’ heart. “Yeah, alright,” he rumbled contentedly, lowering his head for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about King Louis XIII and ties? The happiest of accidents. I am stupidly pleased.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos cooks Aramis breakfast and visits his work. Constance and d'Artagnan make an appearance. Basically: domestic fluff, smut, and a generous helping of friends giving each other grief.
> 
> I should say something about completely irresponsible car sex, but I'm just going to stop questioning my life choices and go to bed.

When Aramis forced his eyes open the next morning, he expected to be happily smothered under a human-shaped furnace. Instead, he woke up cocooned in one of his grandmother's quilts. Before his dumb brain could get anxious about waking up alone, he heard the faint sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen. If the sound hadn’t been enough to ease him awake, the parade of mouth-watering smells drifting his way would have done it.

Oh God. If Porthos was a morning person though, he was going to cry. Aramis slept light, but he still needed at least two cups of coffee to form coherent sentences. And on days when he didn’t have to work, he usually laid around in bed with his laptop or a book, reluctant to break the serenity of a comfy pile of blankets. He wasn’t _lazy_ , he was just…

Okay, he was a little lazy. But he preferred the term _laid-back_ , thank you very much. Life moved so quickly. There was nothing wrong with enjoying the slower moments to their full extent. Especially when it was winter and inhumanely cold.

Rolling off the sofa with a groan, Aramis hunchbacked his way towards the kitchen with the quilt wrapped tightly around his shoulders. The moment his bare feet touched cold tile, he realised he probably looked like a hot mess. He lifted a hand to the frizzy riot that was his hair, just as Porthos turned away from the stove with tongs in hand.

All cohesive thought scattered at the sight of Porthos in nothing but turquoise boxer briefs and the solitary apron that existed in Aramis’ flat. It was black and read _I’d rather be naked_ across the chest. Phia had bought it for him and laughed for ten minutes straight, knowing damn well he didn’t cook, but that that fact didn't make the apron any less accurate. 

He’d honestly forgotten it even existed until it was staring back at him from the chest of an _illegally_ gorgeous man in nothing but his underwear.

“Uhhhhhhhhhh….”

Smooth. So much for that silver tongue.

Aramis stifled a yawn and childishly pushed down on his hair with his palm, all while keeping his blanket snugly wrapped around himself. “My God, Porthos...how are you not freezing?”

Porthos’ laugh was a low roll of thunder that shivered its way down Aramis back. "Just hotblooded, I guess," he grinned crookedly. “I hope you’re hungry. I might’ve gotten a little carried away,” he murmured, turning back to the stove to shovel a few strips of bacon out of a pan.

Finally peeling his eyes off all the beautiful brown skin in front of him, Aramis noted the number of plates spread out over the countertop. There were waffles, thick slices of toast with jam and honey, an omelette with colourful peppers peeking out of it, and a delicious-looking pain au chocolat that Aramis desperately, _desperately_ hoped Porthos hadn’t baked himself. 

Because there would be no coming back from that. No coming back whatsoever.

Porthos deposited the bacon onto a plate covered in a paper towel and poured a cup of coffee, adding plenty of milk and a little sugar, just the way Aramis liked it. 

If Aramis had stopped gaping like a fool, he might have remembered his manners and offered to get his own coffee. And some for Porthos. And anything else the man wanted, ever, for the rest of his life. But as he’d only just worked up enough brainpower to lower his hand from his hair, he simply took the offered mug with a grateful smile.

“Thank you. Were you...thinking I needed to gain a stone?” Aramis quietly teased, raising his eyebrows as he lifted the mug to his lips.

Porthos dragged a hand over the back of his neck. “You didn’t order much at the airport and we skipped breakfast the last two days. I just wasn’t...sure what you’d like.” On cue, two more pieces of toast popped up out of the toaster behind him. The sound made nervous embarrassment sweep across Porthos’ features, but he laughed anyway. “I uh, I know you only went to the market yesterday and this is...a little ridiculous. I promise I’ll restock.”

Aramis bought himself a few seconds by downing the contents of his cup in one go. “Porthos…,” he eventually sighed, looking up at Porthos with a softly reverent gaze. “The only thing that’s ridiculous is that you’ve somehow managed to remain single. Frankly, I’m starting to get suspicious.”

“Of me?” Porthos smiled. “I’m the picture of innocence.”

Smirking at his own words getting tossed back him, Aramis refilled his mug. “Mmhmm. If I don’t start finding some flaws, I’ll be forced to assume these last few days have been a figment of my imagination.”

Porthos huffed a bemused noise and buttered the two pieces of toast to add them to a plate. “Got plenty of flaws, Aramis.”

"I don't believe you."

"I snore."

" _Real_ flaws, Porthos," Aramis scoffed.

"I cheat at cards."

Aramis rolled his eyes, flapping his blanket further back on his shoulders so that he could grab a plate and carry it over to the table.

Porthos followed him balancing three plates on his arms. "I will, without a doubt, hide dirty clothes in your laundry bin so I can put off doing my own wash for a day or two."

Laughing, Aramis draped his blanket over the back of a chair and shivered as the cold air hit his bare chest. He should’ve dug for his shirt, wherever it had ended up when Porthos pulled it off of him the night before, but he didn’t mind levelling the playing field somewhat. "That's just ingenuity. Keep trying."

Silence was his only answer for a few long seconds, and when Porthos started speaking again it was with a distracted, slightly huskier tone of voice. "Ingenuity. I like that.”

Aramis smirked, plopping down into a seat to sip at his coffee. “Flaws, Porthos. Stay focused.”

“Right. Focused.” Porthos stripped off the apron and set it aside. “I...well, I've got a criminal record?"

Now _that_ had Aramis' attention. And not just because there was more exposed skin involved. He lifted a surprised gaze to Porthos, but the man had gone back into the kitchen for the rest of the plates. Aramis was still staring at him, head tilted, when Porthos set the the last plate down, and the two empty ones with silverware resting on top. When he finally brought his eyes back to Aramis, he didn’t look nervous exactly, but there was something there. Wariness, perhaps.

“Technically, it’s sealed. I was a teenager. Petty shit, mostly.” Porthos nodded his chin towards the food. “Eat,” he added before he retraced his steps for his own cup of coffee and then finally claimed a seat for himself.

Getting information out of Porthos was starting to feel like an exercise in extreme patience, but Aramis didn’t mind. He picked up a fork and transferred a few items over to his plate. 

“ _Mostly_...?” he quoted, hoping it was a gentle enough nudge.

Porthos exhaled quietly and stabbed a waffled for himself. “Until I was sixteen, it was just minor theft. Food. Clothes. Me and two friends were on and off the streets for years. We were just tryin’ to get by. Then…” 

Talking about the past was starting to carve small groves into Porthos’ face already, like they’d always been there but he was really good at hiding them most of the time. 

“Then, we hit a really bad winter. We were starvin’ and freezin’ our arses off. So I broke into a house I thought was empty. Post overflowin’ out the box in front, stack of newspapers in the yard. I figured, one night, you know? Who would it hurt?”

He didn’t say anything else for a moment, just wet his lips and reached for the syrup in the middle of the table. Eventually, he gave Aramis a sad little smile. “Turns out it wasn’t empty. And it hurt plenty. The bloke had a bat and he used it on my friend. Had to fight him off.” Porthos slowly dug his fork into his waffle and took a bite, mumbling around a mouthful. “Wish I could say I was gentle about it.”

It was easily the most words Aramis had heard out of Porthos at once and he almost wished he’d never asked. Reaching across the corner of the table, he brushed the pads of his fingers over the frown lines between Porthos’ eyebrows. Porthos leaned into the touch before flicking his eyes up to Aramis’ face.

The regret and worry in those dark eyes, so normally full of affection and mischief, was heartbreaking. 

Aramis wasn’t sure what to say. All he really knew in that moment was that he wanted Porthos to feel safe and free of judgment.

God help him, he was already so far gone over this man.

"Was your friend all right?"

"Yeah. Just a little more bitter about his lot in life."

Aramis lowered his hand from Porthos' face and stroked his arm where it rested on the table. "And the man?"

"...He was okay too. Had a lot to say in court, but who can blame him?"

"You were little more than children," Aramis murmured.

"I guess. Charon was only fourteen. Flea’s a year younger. And I hadn't hit my last growth spurt yet so I was just this scrawny kid. Coulda gone a lot differently otherwise. In the house. In court."

After silently staring at Porthos for a few seconds, Aramis’ smile was a somber thing. “Tell me one more thing?”

Porthos picked up Aramis’ hand and kissed his palm. “Anything.”

Good God. Had a simple touch and one word ever given Aramis goosebumps like that? He doubted it.

“Please, _please_...,” Aramis whispered, leaning forward as if what he was about to say was more crucial than a state secret. “Please tell me you aren’t really a morning person.”

Snorting a laugh against Aramis’ skin, Porthos looked ten years younger in the blink of an eye. He feigned deep thought for a moment before looking up at Aramis through his eyelashes and nipping into the flesh of his palm. “I’m a mornin’ _sex_ person? Does that count?”

Aramis smiled, so wide it nearly hurt, and then chuckled behind the tight stretch of his mouth. “No. _That_ is completely acceptable.” He intended to say something else, something charming and chock full of innuendo, something that would keep that light in Porthos’ eyes and encourage him to nibble his way up Aramis’ arm until things got very interesting, but Porthos flashed a knowing smirk and let go of his hand.

“Eat. Before it’s all cold and you end up thinkin’ I’m a terrible cook.”

“Hm. Yes. Teenage mistakes are one thing. Feeding me subpar food might be a deal-breaker.”

That was the last thing he said for a long time. One bite of gloriously cheesy omelette and he was too busy moaning to tease Porthos for awhile.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast and dishes (and a good ten minutes where Aramis pinned Porthos against the fridge and thanked him for the food with handsy, drugging kisses), Porthos took one look at the stack of boxes they’d stored in the spare room and grumbled ‘fuck that, I’ll do it tomorrow’. He ran a bath for Aramis instead, as hot as he could stand. 

“A shower would be faster.”

Porthos looked up from where he was bending over the tub. “You don’t have to work ‘til tomorrow. What’s the rush? ‘Sides, you’ve been shivering since you got up.”

Aramis drank in the sight of Porthos' bent back, the long line of taut muscles from his shoulders all the way down to his calves. “Fair point. But If you’re trying to spoil me, it’s working.”

“Good,” Porthos grunted back. He moved towards Aramis with deceptively casual grace and reached for the buttons of his jeans, but froze when his fingertips grazed denim. "I can leave you to it, if you want...?"

Huffing a breath, Aramis hooked a hand around Porthos' neck and pulled him to his mouth.

They ended up slowly peeling off each other's clothes, what little they were wearing, and then they climbed into the tub together. Aramis relaxed against Porthos' chest, humming quiet noises with every sweep of soap-slick hands on his skin, all the way through Porthos washing his hair with just the right amount of pressure. By the time Porthos wrapped his hand around Aramis' thickened cock, where it curved against his belly just under the foggy water line, Aramis was making sounds that weren't so quiet anymore.

"Fuck, Aramis," Porthos growled next to his ear. "Never seen anything as beautiful as you."

Aramis arched, skin flushed and stretched tight. He rambled off a colourful string of praise in Spanish, with his face pressed into Porthos' neck, and thrilled at the instant reaction it inspired. Porthos rocked against Aramis' back and curled his free arm around to stroke at his throat.

"God. Your hands are incredible. _You_ are incredible, Porthos."

“Yeah?” Porthos dragged his hand over the head of Aramis' cock and then slid his grip back down the other side with a twist of his wrist. Aramis groaned, hooking an arm around Porthos' neck to card his fingers into the damp edges of his hair.

“So I probably shouldn't tell you that I wasn't entirely honest before. When I said I didn't introduce myself to get in your trousers." The stroke of Porthos' hand stayed agonisingly slow and steady, which made Aramis' laugh come out choked. "You were sprawled out in that chair, gorgeous frownin' face, stupid jeans low on your hips. When I realised I'd been picturin' you naked and sweaty for over a half hour, I knew I had to at least know your name."

This time, Aramis managed a laugh that wasn't tangled up in a moan. "Not interested in pleasuring yourself to the thought of a nameless stranger?"

"It's so bloody _impersonal_." Aramis could feel Porthos' unrepentant grin against his temple. "Even bad porn gives you some kinda name to work with….speaking of, be glad I had no way of knowin' you were a nurse."

Aramis closed his eyes, a lazy smile cresting from one corner of his mouth to the other . "I am grateful for a great many things, Porthos."

"Mm. Me too. You ready to get outta this tub?" Porthos punctuated the question by squeezing Aramis' cock.

"... _God yes_."

 

* * *

 

They barely made it to the bed. Aramis wrapped a towel around his waist and Porthos carried their dirty clothes into the bedroom, not even bothering with covering himself up. Aramis licked a droplet of water from the back of Porthos' neck and in the next breath he was engulfed in damp, muscled flesh. He landed half on the bed, half off, chuckling under his breath. Porthos shovelled two hands up underneath him, pushed him further up onto the mattress, and climbed up after him with a wicked grin. 

“Tell me when to slow things down.” That low rumble of a tease was immediately followed by Porthos propping his arms up on either side of Aramis’ head and rolling up the length of him to take his mouth in a ruthless kiss.

Aramis groaned. Which led to Porthos dropping down to his elbows and pressing down on top of him. There was only the fabric of the towel between them, so Aramis could feel the hard contour of Porthos’ erection grazing against his own with merciless clarity. Hell, he could feel every inch of Porthos and it was almost too much to bear. He grabbed Porthos’ face with both hands and hooked his calves around the back his knees.

Porthos kissed like there didn’t need to be anything else. Like he could drag Aramis over the edge with just his lips and the tantalising glide of tongue against tongue. Maybe he could. Because Aramis was keening in the back of his throat already. And when Porthos slid his hands down the bed so he could drive them up under the towel and knead at the top of Aramis’ thighs, Aramis broke the kiss with a curse.

Taking advantage of the long line of throat suddenly exposed to him, Porthos buried his face against Aramis’ neck and bit down, just this side of too hard. Aramis jerked, cursing again but with even more feeling behind it.

“Yeah?” Porthos chuckled. “Like a little bit of pain, do you?” He switched the other side of Aramis’ neck and nipped at his collarbone.

“I...I like a little bit of everything,” Aramis admitted breathlessly, twisting his hands up into Porthos’ hair. “Well, almost everything.”

Porthos laughed and rubbed his thumbs up along the inside of Aramis’ thighs, the blunt nails of the rest of his fingers digging in at the same time. The heat of the bath was starting to abandon Aramis, but it was hard to lament the loss when it was being so swiftly replaced by the fire in his blood. Porthos trailed kisses slowly down from his neck to his chest and drew a nipple in between his teeth. Even that was torturously deliberate, like he was purposefully moving at a snail’s pace just to see what would happen.

Unwilling to disappoint him, Aramis growled and tugged him up by his hair, kissing him hard as he flipped him over onto his back. One sharp tug on the towel and there was nothing between them but rapidly cooling beads of bathwater. Aramis lifted up on his arms so he could lock eyes with Porthos in time with rolling his hips against him. 

Watching Porthos’ dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, and hearing him whimper in the most delightfully needy way, was something close to the divine as far as Aramis was concerned. He gripped Porthos by the chin and pulled down, opening his mouth just a little wider so he could suck at his bottom lip. 

Porthos couldn’t seem to settle on where he wanted to put his hands. One second they were on Aramis’ ass, the next they were scratching into his back. Finally they curled up and over Aramis’ shoulders, holding him down as Porthos thrust upwards with a groan that harmonised beautifully with the one pushed out of Aramis. 

Apparently, that was enough to shred any plans Porthos had for keeping things tauntingly slow. He curled his arms around Aramis’ back and rolled, trying to gain the upper hand again no doubt. Unfortunately, he misjudged how close to the edge of the mattress they were. 

Or, well, not so unfortunately, since having the wind knocked out of him as they crashed to the floor wasn’t particularly _un_ pleasant for Aramis. All that hard, heated muscle landing on top of him? He could do with that happening a thousand more times, frankly.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he gasped.

Porthos snickered, grinding against Aramis more gently now to match the apology tumbling out of his mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” he laughed. 

That said, he didn’t seem interested in rectifying the situation. He only claimed Aramis’ mouth for a biting kiss. A temporary farewell of sorts, it seemed, since Porthos followed it by sliding down the lean body pinned beneath him and lapping his tongue up the length of Aramis’ cock without warning.

“Good Go….d. You are going to be the death of me.”

Glittering dark eyes tracked upwards, half-lit by stray sunshine peeking through the curtains. They stayed locked on Aramis’ eyes as Porthos mouthed at the base of the shaft then trailed his tongue lower. His hands shifted to behind Aramis’ knees, pushing up and out, spreading him open, and Aramis dropped his head back to the floorboards with a thunk.

Because life had a way of laughing at him when things were really looking up, the moment Porthos swiped his tongue between Aramis’ asscheeks was the same moment Aramis heard the Jaws theme start playing from somewhere inside the pile of clothes nearby. He tried to ignore it, he really did. Even though it was set to get progressively louder on purpose. Stupid idea, really. So stupid.

After a few seconds, however, his work ethic kicked in. The head nurse didn’t call from the administration line unless it was important.

With a frustrated growl, he threw one arm out and scrambled for his jeans. “ _Goddamn it_.”

“Leave it,” Porthos growled back, making Aramis arch with the demanding use of his tongue as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , I can’t. I’m sorry,” Aramis panted. One hand closed around the vibrating mobile as the other carded into Porthos’ curls, trying to pull the man up from between his legs. He should have put a bit more effort into it, because Porthos didn’t budge and Aramis had already instinctively hit the green button to answer the call.

“....You have the _worst_ timing in the world,” he gritted out through his teeth.

“ _Oh God, are you naked?_ ” Constance asked. “ _Wait, no, don’t answer that!_ ”

Aramis wanted to laugh, but with his mouth going dry and his grip on the phone edging towards painful, all he could manage was a huff. Porthos was _relentless_ and Aramis’ voice came out a pained whisper. “Constance…”

“ _Right, right, sorry! It’s just, Fleur came down with something nasty so I wanted to see if you could come in. Please, Aramis? You know I hate calling, but it’s you or Suzette. Don’t make me work an entire shift with Suzette, Aramis. **Please**. She hates it here and you’re so, so good with the babies...I’ll take your Saturday shift!_ ”

Between the flattery, the desperation, and the bribe, Constance hit all of the right buttons. Aramis groaned and rolled his eyes, finally working up the will to pull on Porthos’ hair with insistence. He came up from between Aramis’ legs with a pout.

“Fiiiine. I’ll come in. But I am definitely taking you on your word about Saturday.”

“ _Oh, I knew I could count on you. Thank you!_ ”

As Aramis disconnected the call with a disgruntled ‘mmhmm, see you soon’, Porthos rolled over to his back with the saddest sigh Aramis had ever heard in his life. Aramis scooted down across the floor to roll over on top of him, propped up on his hands and knees.

“I am so, so sorry. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

Porthos chuckled and lifted up to kiss him just below his jaw. “It’s alright. I can wait. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I certainly hope not. There’s something to be said for anticipation, at least?” Aramis smirked, quirking an eyebrow.

“That’s it stupid and overrated?”

Aramis laughed and pressed a chaste kiss to Porthos’ mouth before forcing himself to his feet to get dressed.

 

* * *

 

Three-quarters of the way through his extra shift, Aramis finished bundling a newborn back into her blanket and set her down gently into her bassinette, cooing comfortingly all the while. He marked a few spots on her record before meandering his way back out of the nursery and headed for check-in to tell Constance he was taking a break. Just as he got into the main hall, however, he spotted Porthos at the desk, patting his hand down on an aluminum-covered plate. 

“No, no, I don’t want to bother ‘im while he’s workin’. He’s seen plenty of me the last couple days. I just wanted to drop this off. He left in a hurry and I figured he might be hungry,” Porthos insisted with a flustered smile. 

Constance stared up at him from the opposite side of the counter and smiled. Oh God, Aramis knew the look in her eyes. It was intelligent. It was calculating. It was _trouble_. He rushed over as quickly as he could and hooked a hand around Porthos’ elbow.

“Don’t you dare.” He squinted down at Constance with mock-suspicion, but the look rolled off of her like water.

“What? I haven’t done anything!” she laughed. “Now don’t be rude. Introduce me to your handsome new friend.”

Aramis heaved a sigh. “Porthos, Constance. Constance, Porthos.” 

Porthos shifted uncomfortably and gave him an apologetic look. He had no way of knowing the affectionate curtness of Aramis’ tone had nothing to do with him showing up uninvited and everything to do with the fact that Constance had already spent half a shift hearing all about Porthos.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Porthos,” Constance grinned, reaching out to shake his hand. “The things I’ve heard about _you_ \--”

“--Shhhhhhe is an old friend and an amazing nurse, but also a giant pain in my arse. Please don’t listen to a word out of her big mouth,” Aramis cut in. 

Porthos seemed to relax slightly as he glanced back and forth between the two of them with a quiet laugh. The feisty ginger behind the counter stuck her tongue out at Aramis and claimed his dinner plate for her own. “Just for that, this is mine now. Go take your break. Just please, for the love of God, Aramis, don’t have sex in the hospital. It’s so unhygienic.”

Making a frustrated noise, Aramis pulled Porthos towards the room the nurses had turned into a break room of sorts. It was small, but private, and had a hospital bed for when an unplanned double-shift required a nap to power through the last few hours. As soon as the door shut behind them, Porthos scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I thought I could just drop the food off really quick and be gone before you even knew I was here.”

“And why would you feel the need to slip in and out like a ghost?” Aramis asked as he crowded Porthos up against the edge of the bed.

“I…” Porthos dragged his eyes away from the door to scan over Aramis’ face. The last of his visible tension dissipated with an off-kilter smile. “Stalkin’ is a crime.”

“Yes, definitely, but I’m quite sure it requires the recipient be unwilling and harassed. Which I can assure you is not the case here.” 

The smile on Porthos’ face brightened, inspiring one of Aramis’ own, and he dropped his warm gaze down over the rest of Aramis. “Alright then. Did I mention I like the scrubs?”

“Only about ten times. But please, don’t stop for my sake,” Aramis hummed. Porthos was back in the hoodie he’d been wearing when they met, and Aramis was fairly sure he was forever going to connect this simple blue sweatshirt with the best day of his life. He tucked his fingers under the collar and slowly pulled Porthos to his lips. It was a simple kiss, sweet and soft, because despite what people might think about him, Aramis did have a sense of propriety. The neonatal wing was a place of new life, of unspoiled potential and safety. So he kissed Porthos with the same gentle reverence he devoted to every baby in his care.

When Porthos lifted his head, there was an understanding, an _awe_ in his eyes that coiled around Aramis’ heart and squeezed. 

“Will you stay for a little while?” Aramis whispered.

“As long as I won’t be in the way.”

Porthos spent the next two and half hours between the nurses station and the nursery. Constance chatted amiably with him, drawing out his easy laughter time and time again. And he watched Aramis work from the other side of the glass, while Aramis tried desperately not to get lost in the winsome smile Porthos slowly but surely cast at both him and each baby in the unit. 

All of his effort was almost a complete loss, though, when an exhausted patient mistook Porthos for another nurse and handed him her newborn son while she adjusted the I.V. she was dragging around behind her. He cradled that tiny bundle in his strong arms with such infinite tenderness that even Constance squeaked ‘oh my _god_ ’ from all the way across the wing.

The mother reclaimed her baby with a sleepy smile and waddled off to the antechamber of the nursery, and Aramis gave into the need to kiss Porthos now, right now, not later, right this second. He managed to temper his adoration to a delicate press of his lips and the brush of his palms over Porthos’ cheeks, so that had to count for something.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Constance crowed again, even further away this time.

Aramis stifled a chuckle. “Give me five minutes to finish up here.”

“Alright,” Porthos smiled.

 

* * *

 

Porthos was talking on his phone when Aramis came back to lead him towards his car. 

“Yeah, well, I need a job. And so do you.” Despite the long-suffering tone, Porthos sent an amused smiled towards Aramis and followed him to the parking lot. The conversation continued on the same track - ‘don’t give me that, just cause you can afford to be a useless lump doesn’t mean you should be’ - and ended on a cheerfully bossy note as Porthos climbed into the passenger seat of Aramis’ car.

“I’m gonna unpack in the mornin’ and then I’m comin’ over to talk options. You know I can get in whether you want me to or not, so just grumble and brew a pot of coffee at the same time, alright?” After a brief pause, Porthos laughed. “Liar. You love me. See ya tomorrow.”

Aramis started the ignition and turned the heater on full blast as Porthos tucked the phone away in his pocket. “One of these days, I’m going to beg you for the story of how you two met.”

“Ha. It’s a good one. Lots of drama.”

“Oooh. _Tease_ ,” Aramis hissed when Porthos left off right there and looked as if he had no intentions of continuing.

“Yeah.” Porthos smirked, turning in his seat to face Aramis. He hadn’t bothered with a seatbelt yet, but before Aramis could mother hen about it, Porthos gestured out the windshield. “Take a long, quiet route home, alright? Not too many turns. Your concentration’s gonna be a little suspect.”

Both eyebrows shot up Aramis’ forehead like rockets.

Porthos only smiled, the epitome of scandalous - and completely unapologetic - promise in the curve of his lips.

Clearing his throat, Aramis forced himself to focus on getting the car out of the parking lot of his _workplace_ and out onto a back road he used whenever he couldn’t deal with the arrogant selfishness of other drivers. 

When Porthos’ hand curled into the inside of his thigh, he jumped slightly. But he was also ridiculously thankful it was dark outside and that his car wasn’t a stick shift. Because as irresponsible as it was to encourage Porthos’ obvious plans, there wasn’t a chance in hell he could talk himself into actually _refusing_ them. No one in the history of Aramis’ varied sexual experiences had ever even hinted at this.

He did muster up a husky word of caution. “Porthos…”

“Stop lookin’ at me and keep your eyes on the road.”

Aramis swallowed, or tried to anyway. His throat felt like it was coated in dust.

Porthos bared Aramis’ groin to the warm air gusting from the vents far too easily. Loose fitting scrubs came in handy like that. Not that Aramis was coherent enough to think about that. Honestly, he was having a hard time thinking anything but _God, this is dangerous_ , _God, this is hot_ , and _fuck, put your mouth on me please_. 

Thankfully, Porthos didn’t leave him twitching in his seat for long. He leaned over with a throaty growl and sucked the head of Aramis’ cock into his mouth. 

Oh God, okay, he could do this. He could do this without getting them both killed, that was the important part. He just had to let his foot up off the gas. There, done. That wasn’t so har--

The heat of Porthos’ mouth sank all the way down and he swallowed with obvious _purpose_. Aramis shot his hand away from where it had settled at the back of Porthos’ neck and gripped the wheel in a two-fisted clench.

“Shit. Fuck, this was a terrible idea. Why did I--this is so, this is, oh good God, please don’t stop,” he stammered, feeling Porthos’ snort of laughter against the trembling skin of his hip. Porthos drew back up the length of him, twisting his head slowly as he did, then engulfed his prick fully in one stroke again. Four more strokes of insanely hot mouth and a quiet burn started up in Aramis’ chest until it slipped out of his mouth as a keening whimper.

Porthos pulled up off him and murmured against the tip of his cock. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

That was apparently enough to ease Porthos’ concern, because he dove back in without another word, faster now, and with his hand curling up under Aramis to squeeze his balls. It should have been awkward, that big man squashed in between Aramis’ torso and the steering wheel, but Porthos had no trouble whatsoever.

Aramis couldn’t say the same for himself. He kept tapping the gas on downward strokes then jerking his foot back, and his grip on the steering wheel was starting to leave an imprint. Every car that passed going the opposite way made him tense, but that only seemed to shove him a little closer to his end each time. It’s not that he wasn’t aware that he had a little bit of exhibitionist streak. It was that the thought of getting caught and still pumping his cock into Porthos’ mouth, right there in front of a scandalised onlooker, made him peel one hand off the wheel to bury it in Porthos’ curls.

Humming his pleased reaction to this, Porthos adjusted his position so that the small thrusts of Aramis’ hips didn’t drive his head into the steering wheel.

“Oh, Christ...there’s a cop.”

Porthos stilled in his lap, but didn’t draw off. If anything, he pressed down as far as he could get, and Aramis moaned through clenched teeth. It seemed like forever before the cop car in front of him finally turned down another road, what with Porthos swallowing reflexively against him and huffing through his nose. As soon as they were a half mile away, Aramis released his death grip on Porthos’ hair and Porthos lifted his head to steal a few laughing gulps of air.

“You have no idea how temptin’ it was to make you come with a cop right in front of us.”

Aramis sputtered a laugh and flushed as it turned into a groan with the renewed attentions of Porthos’ mouth. The near miss heightened everything, electrified every nerve ending, so Aramis only needed a few more seconds before he was clamping his eyes shut for a terrifying second. Spilling into the heat of Porthos’ mouth, blind and behind the wheel, was easily the most tense, most _vivid_ orgasm of his life.

He jerked his eyes back open with a strangled gasp. Every light within a mile had a halo around it and he had to pant for a few seconds before any words came out.

“Good God. Good _fucking_ God, Porthos.” 

They’d only drifted a little, thank God, so he corrected their path as Porthos fixed his clothes and settled back into his seat with a brazen grin, perfectly visible in the darkness of the car.

“If I say something horribly tacky like...where have you been all my life, are you going to throw yourself out of the car and run away?”

“No,” Porthos chuckled. “I’d say...I was waitin’ for you. I just didn’t know it.”

Aramis sighed happily and reached across the car to cover Porthos’ heart with his hand. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“...Yes, Mum.”

 

* * *

 

d’Artagnan was at the top of the stairs when they made their way up to the flat. 

“I called you three times,” he announced with a glare.

“I was at work,” Aramis replied, eyes going a little wide at the tone.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” A flash of regret swept across d’Artagnan’s face and he nodded hello to Porthos like he only just remembered he had manners. “I just...had a question.”

Aramis stuck his key in the door, waiting for him to continue, but d’Artagnan only shifted awkwardly and shot his eyes towards the ceiling. Smirking, Aramis held the door open for Porthos. “How can I help you, d’Artagnan?”

“Uh, well, I wanted to know, I mean I was hoping you could tell me, did I….” Luckily for d’Artagnan, Aramis actually was a very patient person. Still, he raised an eyebrow when the silence started to stretch into uncomfortable territory. “Did I embarrass myself? I mean, last night? In front of your friend?” d’Artagnan sputtered out in a rush.

Oh. Aramis smiled and deflected like a master. “Athos is Porthos’ friend.”

“Rubbish,” came Porthos’ contribution from somewhere inside the apartment. “He’s your friend now too.”

d’Artagnan huffed impatiently. “ _Whoever’s friend he is_ , did I embarrass myself or not?”

Clapping a hand onto the lad’s shoulder, Aramis leaned in to whisper, “Well, you were very...friendly.”

Aramis could almost _hear_ d’Artagnan swallow. “How friendly?”

“Hm. You complimented his eyes quite a bit?”

“And there was that colourful bit about his mouth there at the end!” Porthos shouted. “I rather enjoyed that part.”

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan croaked.

Aramis chuckled and rubbed d’Artagnan’s shoulder comfortingly. “It’s all right. He nearly smiled at one point. I think he likes you.”

“ _Oh God_ ,” d’Artagnan repeated. In a blink, he spun around and fled to the door of his flat. It didn’t slam behind him, but it was a close call. 

Porthos came up behind Aramis, giggling. “Poor kid. There’s probably not a more oblivious person on the planet to have a crush on.”

Turning to run his hands up the fabric of Porthos’ hoodie, Aramis smiled, still loose and easy from their nighttime driving adventure. “Any chance he might return his affections?”

Porthos mulled that one over a bit, pulling Aramis inside so he could shut the door. “Honestly? I don’t know. He’s complicated. Lots of baggage. But he surprises me every once in a while. Now, can we stop talkin’ about Athos? I can almost sense him turnin’ a Sauron’s eye this way.”

Aramis laughed and nuzzled into the crook of Porthos’ neck. “I _suppose_. What would you suggest we do instead?”

The curl of Porthos’ fingers into his hair made Aramis smile against his skin.

“Well, I don’t know about _you_....but I’m bloody starvin’.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos exchange personal tragedies, have sex (NOT on the kitchen floor, Aramis would like to point out) and are disgustingly domestic. They also babysit a child genius (Aramis' niece), attend a children's birthday party, annnd have a bit of drama show up at their door, courtesy of Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I keep writing these stupidly long chapters, but it works for this verse. I think. I hope you enjoy! ♥

They didn’t end up having sloppy sex on the kitchen floor, but it was close. 

Porthos puttered around barefoot in a white henley and tan trousers, casually making penne with asparagus, peas and cherry tomatoes like it was as easy as pouring a bowl of cereal. Between the flat smelling like everything good and right with the world and Porthos’ infectious smiles, Aramis nearly did instigate tile sex, potential fire be damned.

Then Porthos started telling him what little he remembered about his mother, with this bittersweet roughness in the timbre of his voice, and Aramis was definitely distracted, just not in the get Porthos naked way. 

Porthos said she liked to sing. She told him stories, even though he didn’t think he ever saw her read. She called him Little Duck because he would curl up under her wing whenever he could. And probably because he had a terrible squawking laugh before his voice changed. He was barely tall enough to see out of the car window when the lady in the grey suit drove him to the hospital that last time, but he remembered standing tall next to his mother's bed, while he promised he’d be a good boy, just like she asked. 

He looked a little sheepish, as he relayed that part, and Aramis smirked sympathetically.

Porthos said he remembered her smile, and the worry in her eyes there at the end, but her face was just a little harder to recall every year that went by. It was at this point in his quiet, meandering speech that he filled up two bowls with pasta and turned towards Aramis with a rueful smirk.

“Sorry.”

Aramis stared at him a moment and then stepped closer. "Why in God’s name would you be sorry, Porthos?”

“Didn’t mean to go all sad orphan on you.” Porthos handed one of the bowls to Aramis. “I just...I wanted to share somethin’ of me. Somethin’ important and _personal_. Because the kid who beat a middle-aged man into the floor in his own damn home? That’s not me. Not really.”

Suddenly itching to touch him, Aramis set the bowl down and tucked a hand around the back of Porthos’ neck, tugging him closer. "I sorted that much out for myself, but I'm glad you told me about her, anyway."

Porthos gave him a lopsided smile. “Good. Me too.”

Something in Aramis' heart settled into place, like a cog had been crooked for years and it just needed someone to reach in and snap it back where it belonged. The right someone. Someone who was good with his hands, it seemed.

He thought about sharing his own tragedy. The moment certainly suited and it wasn’t like he didn’t trust Porthos with the damaged part of his heart. Because he did. A handful of days and he trusted Porthos implicitly. No doubt someone would argue that he tended to trust people too easily anyway, but that was a shallow trust, an inclination to give people the benefit of the doubt, not a true willingness to let someone in past his carefully built defenses.

Porthos had slipped past those with terrifying ease already.

But before he could decide whether to give in to his instinct, Aramis shifted a gaze towards the dining room and spotted what he’d missed until then. A large mason jar sat in the center of the table, overflowing with daffodils.

If he’d had to pick a flower that suited Porthos perfectly, the daffodil would have been at the top of his list. It was bold and joyful, a symbol of hope and life. How the hell the man had managed to find a gorgeous bouquet of them in winter was baffling, but it was just proof that Porthos let nothing get in his way. 

Porthos caught where Aramis’ attention had wandered and he sat his bowl down next to the one Aramis had abandoned. “I thought roses were a bit...tacky, yeah? I mean, unless you like roses, then I’ll remember for next time.”

Aramis smirked and moved to collect the jar, holding the flowers up to his nose. Even the scent suited Porthos. Both exhilarating and soothing at once. “Roses are fine, but these are...perfect.” He wondered if Porthos could read the look he was giving him then. Not that it mattered, since Aramis wasn’t planning on being all that subtle about his intentions. 

Setting the jar down on the kitchen counter, he stepped backwards towards the dining room table and stripped off his t-shirt. “Come here, please,” he hummed as he dropped the shirt to the floor.

The grin he got in return was mouthwatering, to say the least, and the words that accompanied it were full of cheek, but Porthos countered them by striding towards him with a deliciously hot gaze. “What about the food?”

“It’ll keep.” Aramis reached across the last bit of distance to fist a hand into Porthos’ shirt and yanked him into a kiss that Porthos met with breath-stealing enthusiasm. Warm hands gripped him at the waist and pushed him back against the table’s edge, but Aramis stalled Porthos by pulling his shirt up and off, trailing after it with his mouth on Porthos’ skin. Once his arms were free of the fabric, Porthos buried his hands in Aramis’ hair. 

“If you’re phone rings, I’m throwin’ it out the bloody window. Fair warnin’.”

Chuckling, Aramis kissed a path up Porthos’ chest. He wanted to take his time, love every inch of this exceptional man, but he didn’t think either of them were that patient. Not _this_ time.

Porthos proved him right (at least temporarily) by tightening his grip in Aramis’ hair and tugging him back to his mouth. It served as a distraction technique, because the next thing he knew, he was on the table with his calves hooked around the back of Porthos’ thighs and a whimper trapped in his throat. Porthos was undoing the button of Aramis’ jeans while still holding him up from the table by the back of his neck, holding him to the endless worship of his lips and tongue. 

His jeans were barely unzipped when Porthos curled his hand inside and grazed his palm across the hard length of Aramis’ cock. Aramis was digging his nails into the broad back hunched over him when that hand closed around him, the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs still frustratingly covering his heated skin.

“What do you want?” Porthos growled against his throat.

“What do _you_ want?”

“I asked you first,” Porthos laughed, dragging his teeth down Aramis’ neck.

Aramis groaned and bucked against Porthos’ slowly twisting grip. “I wasn’t kidding when I said it was a long list, Porthos.”

“Lists tend to have some order. What’s at the top of yours?” Again, Aramis felt Porthos’ mouth on his skin, but gentler now, kissing out to the edge of his shoulder and back again. Aramis shivered.

“I--” His reply mutated into a shaky inhale as Porthos rotated his hand, slipped two fingers beneath the fabric of Aramis’ underwear and stroked lazily. 

“You…,” Porthos prompted.

“Fuck.”

“We’re gettin’ there. _You_...”

Dropping his head back to the wood of the table, Aramis snorted a laugh and dug a hand into Porthos’ curls. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Mm. Specifics, Aramis,” Porthos rumbled, nipping at Aramis’ chin. 

“I...I want your ridiculously hot mouth on my cock while you stretch me open with your fingers. I want that very badly. I will never, ever tire of your mouth and hands, Porthos.” He stretched up to kiss Porthos greedily, eliciting a groan for himself. “I want you…,” Aramis panted against Porthos’ open mouth, “...I want you to make me beg for it. You wanted that, on the plane. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I’ll beg especially well for you here and now, Porthos. When you think I’ve pleaded enough, when you think I’m desperate enough, I want you to fuck me. And because I have a feeling it’s something you are very good at, I want you do it slow and hard, Porthos, until I’m shaking apart beneath you.”

“ _Jesus Christ_.”

Aramis could hardly hear Porthos’ growled reply since his face was pressed into Aramis’ throat, but he got the message. Smiling wickedly, he pulled Porthos out of hiding and lifted his eyebrows meaningfully. 

“Now. What do _you_ want?”

Porthos huffed. “That. All of that. And not on this bloody table.”

With that, Porthos removed his hand from Aramis’ jeans and tucked both hands up beneath him, picking him up with ease. Aramis took advantage of the short ride to the bedroom by kissing and biting at Porthos’ neck and shoulders, his legs wrapped so tightly around Porthos’ waist that he could feel every stride like a purposeful stroke to his groin.

The fact that he was lowered to the mattress gently actually surprised him, though, and his eyes popped open to take in Porthos’ face. His brown eyes were nearly black and his mouth was slack with need, but everything else about Porthos’ face, and the stretch of his body hovering over Aramis, screamed _restraint_.

One day, very soon, Aramis was going to enjoy peeling away Porthos’ control. 

But not today.

Today, Porthos did as he was asked. With a diligence that had Aramis sweating and scrabbling at the sheets long before the begging started. Somewhere near the beginning, after clothes had been removed, Aramis had enough sense still to stretch across the bed and dig for necessities in his side table, but after that, Porthos took over with ruthless patience. 

That’s not to say Aramis wasn’t an active participant. He kneaded his fingers into Porthos’ shoulders, the back of his neck, his gorgeously disheveled curls, and he talked, oh he certainly talked. Though talking probably wasn’t the right word for the string of bitten off sentences and strangled, half-formed cries that tumbled out of his mouth.

Porthos only grinned, neverendingly. And he took his time, fulfilling Aramis’ request to the letter, murmuring the occasional heated compliment against Aramis' skin - his thigh, his cock, one sensitive strip of flesh after another. Every hot breath and rumbled word was another log on the fire. By the time he really began to beg, Aramis feared he would have given anything, said _anything_ , without shame or artifice, just to have Porthos hard and full inside of him.

Shuffling up the burning length of Aramis’ body, Porthos captured his mouth in a brief kiss. One of his hands was busy between his own legs, and Aramis would have helped him slip the condom on and slick himself up, gleefully even, but he was lost in the black depths of Porthos’ eyes and the feel of that wide muscled back beneath his grasping hands. Porthos sat up, lining up between Aramis’ thighs with his breath clearly held. 

Aramis reached up to stroke him. His neck, his chest, resting his hand over the wild beating of Porthos’ heart. He smiled. And he didn’t need a mirror to know it was a smile that he hadn’t given anyone since he was seventeen.

Porthos smiled back, and then laughed. Breathlessly, beautifully, as if the joy in his heart needed a release valve.

“You sure you don’t want to alter any of the details here?” he asked.

“... _Please, Porthos_ ,” was all Aramis managed, with his eyes rolling back into his head, but it was enough. 

Porthos leaned over him, guiding himself with one hand and latching on to the side of Aramis’ neck with the other. It wasn’t a painful grip, but it wasn’t particularly gentle either, and the press of his thumb under Aramis’ jaw made him moan and arch up for a kiss as his fingertips burrowed into the flesh of Porthos’ waist. He was keening the word please now, over and over. It only stopped, the weight of the word twisting up on his tongue, when Porthos finally, _finally_ , eased forward, filling him up one slow inch at a time.

He was saved from embarrassing himself with another insensible rant by Porthos’ mouth back on his. The kiss was slow too, but deep and dizzying. Lifting his hand from Aramis’ throat, Porthos braced both palms against the side of Aramis’ face and began to rock into him. Aramis mirrored the thrust and the touch, grazing his thumbs across Porthos’ cheeks. When Porthos broke the kiss, it was to rest their foreheads together and lock eyes with him.

God, merciful God. Aramis hoped beyond anything that Porthos looked into his eyes and saw everything Aramis couldn’t say. Everything it was too insanely early to say. He _was_ prone to self-sabotage, he knew that. But he was so desperately unwilling to ruin this with his big, dumb mouth. 

That didn’t stop him from wanting Porthos to know, to feel it, to _see_ it there behind his dark fluttering eyelashes. 

_Let him feel loved_ , Aramis thought. _Let him feel safe and treasured and loved. And please, please for the love of God, don’t let me fuck this up_.

He hooked his arms around Porthos neck and kissed him with that wish ringing through his head. In turn, Porthos groaned and drove forward with more force, but still the same brutally steady pace. Aramis pressed in against him as tightly as he could.

“ _Aramis_...”

Snatching that urgent whisper out of the air with another kiss, Aramis shifted until he had the right position to meet every thrust with his hips. There was hardly a breath of space between them, so it was no wonder the friction against his cock kicked his arousal into the highest gear, but really, it was Porthos wrapping an arm around him and biting into his throat that pushed Aramis the last few laps to the finish line. Of course, it helped that Porthos curled one of those incredible hands around Aramis' cock, sandwiched between the sweat-slick heat of their bodies, and stroked it in time with his thrusts.

By either lucky timing or some innate sense, Porthos lifted up to meet his gaze just as Aramis came.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been staring into someone’s eyes in that high-wire moment, but it _was_ the first time it squeezed every bit of air out of him. It squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, until he saw the exact second Porthos tumbled over the edge with him reflected in the pitch darkness of his eyes, painted in the bowstring tautness of his neck. Only then did Aramis manage to heave in a gasping breath.

Porthos kissed him hard and a little off-center as he rode out the tremors of his orgasm with a few last thrusts of his hips, and then he collapsed heavy against Aramis, with his panting mouth just under Aramis’ ear.

“Fuck. Ing. _Hell_.”

Aramis laughed, really laughed. His bones felt like electrified jelly and not even Porthos’ full weight pressing down on him could stop them from rippling. “Eloquent.”

He felt Porthos mouth a weak kiss against his throat. “You got better?”

Rolling Porthos to his side, Aramis cradled his jaw and brushed a passing kiss against his lips. “You...are everything I knew you would be and more, Porthos.”

Porthos inhaled and met Aramis’ gaze. “...Showoff,” he murmured, halfway to a laugh but obviously moved.

“Mm. Well...yes.” 

With one more kiss and the last of their energy, they broke apart and sleepily went through the motions of clean-up. Aramis considering dragging Porthos into the shower, but in their current state, that would probably lead to an injury. Instead, he settled back onto the bed and closed his eyes, with Porthos’ arm snug around him and the steady beat of the man’s big heart thudding beneath his cheek.

And all he could think, as the drugging comfort of Porthos’ breath against his forehead lulled him to sleep, was that this, _this_ was everything he hadn’t truly let himself want in over a decade. 

“I was engaged at seventeen,” he mumbled abruptly.

Porthos stirred against him and his embrace became just a fraction tighter.

“Her name was Isabelle. She was strong and smart and beautiful. She was also sixteen, and pregnant with my child. As unideal as the circumstances were...I loved her. I pictured our future together and thought it was exactly what I wanted.”

It was probably poor form to be having this conversation with pleasure still radiating off the both of them. But it was like ripping off a band-aid, he told himself. It would sting no matter what the circumstances.

And he needed to say it. He needed to let Porthos all the way in.

“She...lost the baby.”

Now Porthos was shifting to his side, arms still stretched around Aramis, but with enough space to meet his gaze in the dim light of the only lamp still left on in the room. His eyes were impossibly soft and compassionate, but he didn’t press. He waited. And he stroked soothingly down Aramis’ back. Aramis mustered up a sad smile and carded his fingers into Porthos’ curls.

“Her parents were the ones to tell me. When they gave me a goodbye letter from her. They’d shipped her off to Spain and refused to tell me where or what happened or--” Closing his eyes, Aramis turned his face slightly into the pillow. Deep breaths. His heart didn’t ache as much at the thought of Isabelle anymore, but it still didn’t feel like all that long ago that this story would have brought him to his knees.

Porthos sat up halfway. Aramis’ eyes flickered open as he felt the warm brush of Porthos’ palm across his forehead, pushing his hair back. Unspoken questions hung in the air, but Porthos only leaned over to gently kiss him.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos whispered into the kiss.

Another melancholy smile twitched at Aramis’ mouth, but he shook his head and dragged his cheek along Porthos’ jaw until he was burrowed into the crook of his neck. “It was a lifetime ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.” Curling his arm around Aramis’ shoulders, Porthos tucked him in against his side and sank back into the bed.

“No,” Aramis sighed. “It doesn’t mean that.”

Porthos pressed his mouth against Aramis’ temple and they said nothing else before sleep carried them gently away.

 

* * *

 

Aramis was dragged from the cusp of a good dream by the realisation that they’d left the pasta out and he’d forgotten to turn on his alarm. Porthos was a ridiculously warm wall at his back, leg tucked over his knee, begging to be cuddled until morning bled into afternoon. But Aramis had to wake up. He had to _move_. He had to at least figure out what time it was and if he should expect to be given a mountain of grief when he arrived at the hospital. 

But good God, all of that was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He groaned and struggled to pry his eyes open, anyway.

“What you makin’ noise about?” Porthos growled sleepily.

Aramis blinked. He shouldn’t have been shocked by how fast that deep grumble torpedoed straight to his groin, but he was, all the same. On the plus side, he was now very much awake. 

“I forgot my alarm.”

Porthos huffed a noise that sounded only about five percent sympathetic and he curled around Aramis a little tighter. Clearly, he was was going to be no help whatsoever.

Stretching an arm out to turn his alarm clock towards him, Aramis groaned even louder. He had twenty minutes to get to work, ten of which he needed to spend in the car. Breakfast was out. Trimming his beard too. He’d have to get a coffee at the hospital. And calling the sludge they served “coffee” was being overly kind.

“ _Porthos_ ,” he whined. “Turn back time for me.”

Porthos snorted. “I can brew a pot if you’re gonna jump in the shower?”

“Mmmmmmmm. You are officially my favourite person.”

“God, you’re easy.”

“Ha. Maybe a little.” Aramis rolled into the warmth of Porthos’ chest, tangling their legs and dragging his nose up the length of Porthos’ throat until he nipped at the pulse below his jaw. It jumped against the follow-up swipe of his tongue and he smiled.

“This is an irresponsible use of your time, Marshmallow.”

Aramis laughed and shifted out from under the hands running over his back with a heavy sigh. Reminding himself that he loved his job didn’t make his movements any less sluggish. And it certainly didn’t stop the low whimper when Porthos goosed him as he climbed out of bed.

“Don’t be cruel.”

Porthos’ feet hit the floor and he sat up in bed with a grin. “I’m just sayin’ goodbye to your fantastic arse. Think they call that manners.”

That little bit of flattering sass forced Aramis to u-turn and steal a hard, quick kiss from Porthos’ uplifted face. Porthos smiled into the kiss and started to loop his arms around Aramis’ thighs, but he was swatted away.

“Now who’s cruel,” Porthos chuckled.

“Forgive me. But I need to take the fastest shower I’ve ever taken in my life.”

“Right. Coffee.” Porthos pointed at him and headed for the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Porthos sent two pictures to Aramis’ mobile halfway through his shift. The first was Ninon, curled so tightly around Athos’ sleeping head that half of his face was obscured by cat belly. The second was nearly exactly the same, only one of Athos’ eyes was open. And _furious_. 

Aramis nearly woke the baby in the nearest bassinette with his strangled, wheezing laughter.

 

* * *

 

“ _Your favourite niece needs you to babysit her tomorrow._ ” 

“Phia.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Try hello, Aramis, beloved brother of mine. How are you today?” Aramis smirked, unloading the bags of takeout he'd purchased on the way home onto the kitchen counter. The flat was empty, but he could still feel Porthos' presence like he'd only stepped out for some air. It was more comforting than he cared to admit.

" _Hi. Can you take Lucie in the morning or do I have to resort to extortion? Don’t bother telling me you have to work. I just got off the phone with Constance._ "

Aramis sighed. He considered balking at the threat for all of two seconds. Phia may have been the calmer of his sisters, but she was also the one with sharper claws, when she chose to use them. If she had anything on him, it was better left in the dark. Besides, he loved his niece, so blackmail wasn’t even necessary. It was just the _principle of the matter_.

Still, his silence was apparently answer enough.

“ _Come by at eight._ ”

“Good God. You’re inhuman.”

“ _I’ll have the italian roast waiting for you. And you can bring your boyfriend._ ”

“Thank you, for the coffee. But he’s not my--”

“ _Ugh. For someone who prides himself on being an old soul, you are such an infant about the stupidest things. Bring **Porthos**. I want to invite him to the party, anyway._ ”

Shifting the phone to his other ear, Aramis smiled in spite of his sister’s frustrated tone. Or perhaps, because of it. He’d only argued the boyfriend term because he knew it would annoy her. And maybe a little because he was afraid to pigeonhole Porthos without his permission. But this was still a rare step for Phia. She didn’t include anyone he was seeing in family events - that was more Éléonore’s style. That she wanted Porthos to feel welcome at her daughter’s birthday party was beyond telling. It was practically a neon sign and giant balloons.

“I’ll ask. I’m not going to force him to get up and deal with a terrifyingly smart six year old at eight in the morning.”

“ _But you’ll bring him to the party._ ” It wasn’t a question.

“Probably.”

“ _Probably._ ”

“It’s in the vague realm of possibilities.”

Sophia snorted. “ _You’re such a twat_.”

“And yet, you still love me,” Aramis smirked. “See you in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

Porthos was, unsurprisingly, happy to help babysit. 

Better than that, he was really, really good at it.

Aramis sat on one side of Porthos and Lucie on the other. He wasn't even sure how that happened.

They’d brought her to a cafe to start the morning, and while shovelling down her breakfast, his bright little niece had apparently decided that Porthos was her new best friend. Now they were drawing on napkins together and whispering excitedly with their heads close. If Aramis could have captured the look in Lucie’s eyes and stored it somewhere forever, he would have. It wasn’t just that she was enamoured, it was that she was _engaged_. Adults outside of the family rarely handled Lucie’s brilliance well, but Aramis couldn’t really blame them. Even he struggled every once in awhile, meeting the six year old prodigy on a level playing field. 

Frankly, she already knew things that he had never known.

“What are you two _doing_ over there?”

Porthos straightened and flashed a toothy grin. “Designin' a treehouse.”

“A _winter_ treehouse!” Lucie added, scribbling madly for a few more seconds. “A snow fort! It’ll be perfect for snowball fights and sleepovers and there’s a snowball elevator and a _sniper’s perch_ and oh, oh, Uncle Aramis, is Porthos coming to my party? He is, right? Because I want him to see the backyard so we can make sure the di...the di...mensions are right. And he needs to meet Tesla!”

Tesla was an orange tabby with a white stripe under his nose that looked exactly like a moustache. He was also the ficklest cat on the planet, but Aramis had bribed him into loving him months ago. 

“Your mamá wants to extend him an invitation, yes.” Aramis leaned closer to Porthos. “I’m sure she would have earlier if she hadn’t been frazzled with last minute preparations and us absconding with all of her good coffee.”

Porthos laughed. “I’d love to come. I don’t...have a gift, though.”

“I’ll put your name on mine,” Aramis said nonchalantly, even while watching Porthos carefully over the rim of his glass of water as he took a sip.

The answering smile was slow to arrive, but worth the wait. “Yeah?”

“You’ve kept her so diverted, it’s the least I can do. Besides, I’m quite sure you’re going to be conscripted into helping her build that monstrosity.”

Lucie gasped her outrage at that word and Aramis laughed, holding his hands up defensively. “I _meant_ , brilliant feat of treehouse engineering, obviously. I’m sure it will be the envy of everyone. Children and adults alike.”

Appeased, Lucie nodded regally. She looked so much like her mother in that moment that Aramis helplessly grinned. When he dragged his eyes back to Porthos, he was met with a quietly adoring stare.

“Mm. Stop looking at me like that.”

Porthos’ stare shifted from adoring to mentally stripping Aramis naked.

“Oh God, that’s much worse.”

With a low laugh, Porthos turned back towards Lucie and picked up his pencil again. “You know what this really needs? An _escape shoot_.”

 

* * *

 

The party was a precocious six year old’s dream. The games were inventive and the cake was tooth-rottingly tasty. Lucie spent over a half hour dragging Porthos around by the pinkie, much to the delight of the gaggle of children tailing along with her. Aramis was just childish enough to be glad when Tesla snubbed him. He’d given his weight in treats to that damned cat, Porthos should have to do the same. 

As kids were being picked up and Sophia wandered around making sure they had party bags before they left, Aramis started cleaning up the disaster eight children and an assortment of adults had made of the living room. Porthos appeared at his shoulder and reached to stack a few paper plates on his hands.

“Did you have a good time?” Aramis asked.

“Yeah, you bet. Lucie’s incredible, Aramis. She’ll be buildin’ spaceships or some rudding insanity some day.”

Aramis smiled. “She is very special. And you are very good with children.”

Grabbing a few piles of napkins to add to the stack of used plates, Porthos tried to hide his bashful face by heading for the trash bin. “I was in and out of foster homes. Kinda had to be.”

Aramis followed him. The urge to blurt out words from the heart welled inside his chest yet again, but he kept his cool. “I’m fairly sure at least some of it is just that you are exceptional yourself, Porthos.”

Porthos shot a wide-eyed glance at him, then around them, and then stepped up to Aramis, abruptly kissing him fiercely on the mouth. It was lightning quick, and Aramis’ hands were still full, but it warmed him better than any brief kiss ever had. Aramis swayed.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. And Aramis was sure he was going to say it, he was going to _say it_ , because the fullness in his chest felt seconds from bursting out of him. Porthos opened his mouth first and shifted a step closer to Aramis again, but before he could say anything, Sophia came rushing through the kitchen.

“Lucie just laughed like a comic book villain from somewhere inside the house,” she announced with deceptive nonchalance. “Hurry up and help me find her before she builds a time machine and sends us all back to the stone age.”

 

* * *

 

Shortly after they got back to the flat, Aramis and Porthos were curled up on the sofa together. The tv was on but the volume was low, and they were mostly trading stories, meandering through their pasts in small, easy-to-swallow pieces. Aramis was about to tell him about the time he worked at a carnival for a summer, when there was a sharp rap at the door. 

“Porthos?” 

Porthos sat up in surprise at the sound of Athos’ voice on the other side and hurried over to let the man in. 

“Why the bloody hell is your phone going straight to voicemail?” 

Athos looked shockingly sober, but still out of sorts and he’d clearly picked that outfit in the dark.

“I...shit, I haven’t remembered to charge it,” Porthos mumbled apologetically as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and frowned at the dead screen. His gaze snapped back to Athos. “What’s wrong?”

Glancing at Aramis, Athos seemed to remember that people expected certain things when someone showed up at the door. “Hello, Aramis,” he nodded distractedly, relaxing his shoulders slightly as he stepped fully into the apartment and shut the door.

“Athos…” Aramis greeted in return, looking back and forth between the two men from where he stood a few feet away.

“You come stormin’ in here, barkin’ at me, and now you decide to be social? What the hell happened?”

Athos exhaled. “I’m sorry. Flea’s been trying to reach you. She sounded...I think something’s very wrong, Porthos.”

“Fuck. Must be if she called you.” Porthos reached over and dug Athos’ phone out of his coat pocket, which earned him a look somewhere between fond and annoyed. Aramis would not have been surprised if Athos perfected that look before he was out of nappies. Holding the phone up to his ear, Porthos stepped away towards the kitchen. Not wanting to listen in, but not having much of a choice, Aramis at least tried to give him a few seconds of privacy by sauntering over to Athos and clapping him on the shoulder.

“I hear you have more money than you know what to do with. One day soon, I’m taking you shopping. That coat is an affront to humanity.”

A smirk flickered at the edge of Athos’ mouth. “This coat was eight hundred euro.”

“That coat is _ugly_.”

If Aramis didn’t know better, he’d think for sure Athos chuckled. 

“But are you _safe_?” Porthos growled, stalking back into the living room and sitting down on the sofa to pull on his shoes. “Yeah, okay, alright. Just stay put and keep your eyes open. And if Charon shows up, tell him to stay put too, because I’m going to break his bloody nose.” Clicking the phone off, Porthos held it up at Athos. “Mind if I keep this for an hour or so?”

“Of course not. Is it bad?”

“It’s a stupid mess, is what it is.” Porthos seemed disinclined to give any more details than that. “I need to go help a friend, Aramis. I’ll be back soon, alright?”

Aramis stopped Porthos in his headlong rush to the coats hanging by the door with a calm hand on his chest, trying to catch his harried gaze with a supportive one. “Can I come with you?”

“I--that’s not--it could be dangerous and I don’t want you gettin’ mixed up in any of this,” Porthos sighed. 

Massaging his hand into Porthos chest, Aramis gave him an unimpressed look. “I can handle myself. Besides, if it could be dangerous, you definitely shouldn’t go alone. And I have a _car_.”

The sense of that, at the very least the transportation bit, settled over Porthos’ face with unhappy clarity.

“I’m going too,” Athos said, snagging both of their coats off of hooks and shoving them into both men’s chests. 

Porthos stared at Athos then frowned at Aramis. Eventually, he huffed out a breath and jerked on his coat. “Fine, but you two better do as I say, or I swear to Christ--”

“--Save your empty threats for the ride over. We’re wasting time,” Athos commanded, sweeping out the door without another word.

Before Aramis could follow him, coat still in hand, Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. “Promise me. _Promise me_ that you’ll do what I ask you to.” His face was haunted by a past Aramis had only gotten a distant glimpse of and it stuttered the beat of Aramis’ heart. He leaned in for a bolstering kiss. 

“I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to Flea's aid, Aramis learns how Athos and Porthos met, and shit kinda hits the fan. Think of this as a break in our regularly scheduled fluff, though there's a little of that too.

Somehow, Athos ended up in the passenger seat. He didn't actually call it out loud (which was unfortunate, because Aramis would have gotten a kick out of that), he simply stepped up to the door faster than Porthos did and then stared his friend down like he was psychically daring him to wrestle for it.

To be fair, Aramis would have enjoyed that, too. 

Sadly, Porthos only squinted cockeyed at Athos and then folded his tall body into the tiny back seat without a word.

It was interesting, though, watching how they were with each other. Aramis would never call Porthos submissive, not with a straight face, but there was something about the way he deferred to Athos in that moment that felt like a soldier following his leader's orders.

Of course, Porthos _was_ distracted. Even if Aramis hadn't known that while climbing behind the wheel, he would have found it plainly obvious in how Porthos didn’t speak for the first five minutes after he grunted the address.

It was worrying to say the least.

A short phone call from Flea didn’t help matters. The few clipped responses Porthos gave implied the situation had gotten more complicated, and Porthos practically vibrated with anger until Flea said something that forced him back into a mutinous neutral. He was quiet again after that, chewing on his lip as he stared out the window.

When Aramis finally managed to catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, Porthos leaned forward to drape over the back of their seats and brushed his thumb down the side of Aramis' neck. It was reassuring, even if Porthos was focused on Athos.

"Think I overreacted. There's no reason for all three of us to go stompin' in there. We're...we’re not far from your flat, Athos. Let Aramis drop you at home."

His voice was...odd. That was the only word Aramis could think of to describe the strange tone Porthos has affected. It was like he was talking to someone standing on a ledge, someone he knew and cared for, but also someone he didn’t trust not to fling himself into oblivion if Porthos said the wrong word. 

Athos slowly turned his head towards Porthos. That icy stare wasn't even aimed at Aramis but he felt a sympathy shiver all the same.

"...Please?"

Still nothing from Athos but that piercing stare. Porthos audibly swallowed and sank back into his seat. “Fine. How about, I don’t _want_ you there.”

“And why would that be?”

“Cause it’s overkill.”

“What’s the real reason?” Athos sighed.

“I _don’t need you there_. Frankly, I don’t want either of you there. I made a mistake agreein’ to this. That’s it. That’s all.”

Aramis lifted his eyebrows and met Porthos’ gaze again in the rearview. Or tried, anyway. Porthos was being cagey, keeping all eye contact to a minimum. Thankfully, Athos had no problem calling Porthos out on the carpet.

“Since when do we lie to each other?” Athos said quietly.

“You do it all the bloody time,” Porthos growled. When Porthos crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Athos, Aramis realised he was seeing the first of Porthos’ stubbornness in full force. It was hard to keep his attention on the road when tension rolled from the back seat to the front and then back again, and as a result, he missed a turn and had to take the next one the GPS on his phone suggested.

“Porthos.” Athos sounded like a disappointed parent, but not necessarily one who was _only_ disappointed in his offspring. “I keep things to myself, when you allow it, but I don’t lie when you ask me a direct question.”

Porthos toyed with a loose string on one of his coat sleeves. “Same thing.”

“Stop this. Talk to me.”

Heaving a sigh, Porthos turned towards the window, but shifted a nervous glance to Athos at the same time. “Labarge is involved.”

Never, in Aramis’ entire life, had he witnessed anyone go as still as Athos went then. “Meaning…”

“Meanin’ the Cardinal’s probably involved too, however indirectly,” Porthos sighed. Athos lapsed into silence at this and glared at the dashboard.

After seconds of rigid silence turned into a minute, Aramis dared to ask, “Who’s the Cardinal?”

Porthos cleared his throat. “A manipulative piece of shit. Name’s Richelieu. The Cardinal’s just a nickname that his men picked up somewhere along the line.” 

Traffic was at a standstill, so Aramis half-turned in his seat to look at Porthos directly, a patient expression on his face. Surprisingly, it was Athos who answered his unasked question.

“He’s what passes for a crime lord in this city,” he said, barely loud enough to hear. “More importantly, he profits from ruining lives.”

Aramis was still looking at Porthos, so he saw the way his face fell into something between regret and sympathy. He also watched as Porthos opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Athos’ sharp tone.

“I swear to God, Porthos, if you say something about dropping me at home again, I’ll climb back there just to punch you.”

A sad smile cracked across Porthos’ mouth as he reached over the back of Athos’ seat to squeeze his shoulder. Athos covered his hand with his own and patted it, in what Aramis could only assume was a deep show of affection and understanding by Athos’ standards.

He was officially convinced these two men were the most fascinating pair he’d ever encountered. 

With that thought in mind, Aramis didn’t ask why the Cardinal was such a hot topic between them. He was undeniably curious, obviously, and usually failed in the self-preservation department, but he was - at least temporarily - more concerned with keeping the peace.

Later, he would wish he’d pressed. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that.

“Now that that’s settled, I think it’s high time someone told me the story of how you two met,” Aramis smirked, turning his attention back to the slow moving traffic in front of him.

Porthos grinned. The flash of teeth in the rearview drew a grin out of Aramis as well, and Athos rolled his eyes. 

“Ugh,” Athos grumbled. “I’d rather tell you about Brussels.”

Playfully smacking Athos upside the head, Porthos growled, “Oi. Don’t you dare.”

“But it’s perfectly all right if you tell him an embarrassing story about _me_...?”

“Damn straight,” Porthos chuckled. “See, Athos wasn’t always a grumpy pain in the arse. Shit happened to make him that way, but it’s important to note that when I met him, it hadn’t happened _yet_. He was...what, twenty, twenty-one?”

“Jesus. Just get on with it,” Athos huffed, clearly more fond than annoyed.

“Shhh, don’t rush me.” Smoothing a hand over his beard, Porthos flicked his eyebrows up as if the details of this story were only now coming back to him, and by God was he delighted with them. “Right, so, Flea insisted we go out to a pub with good music, yeah? Only we got there and it was karaoke night. She wanted to leave, but I was like, fuck that, I’ve already got a beer and look, this posh bloke is sloshed beyond all reason and he’s climbin’ up on the stage, this oughta be good for a laugh.”

Athos scratched behind his ear and gave Aramis a look that said ‘you signed up for this man, I hope you realise what you’ve gotten yourself into’.

“Sure enough, Pretty Eyes was determined to sing, even though he could hardly get to the mic without faceplantin’. He sang Come Sail Away, Aramis. _Come Sail Away_. And I’m tellin’ you, he was so bloody _into it_. Like it was his fuckin’ _anthem_. All these drunk arseholes ended up singin’ things they barely know half the words to and this one never even looked at the screen.”

Aramis laughed at the long-suffering sigh from the passenger seat and Porthos steamrolled right on into the next part of the story. 

“So eventually Flea bailed on me and I was tryin’ to sort out how to introduce myself when I noticed he was havin’ a heated argument with a tableful of knuckleheads. I meandered over, because, uh, frankly I’m a nosy fucker sometimes. Turns out they called him a nancy boy or somethin’ equally stupid, and he wasn’t givin’ them scary eyes because he was angry at the term, but because they thought it was an insult in the first damn place. So I got to hear the tail end him of him readin’ them the feminist riot act, which was impressively terrifyin’, just so you know, and then the next thing I know there was a bottle gettin’ broken over his head.”

“I swear you embellish this story a little more every time you tell it.”

“Alright so it might have been a punch thrown first, but I’m sure there was a bottle involved at some point.”

“ _You_ cracked one of them over the head with a bottle when he tried to double-team me.”

“Oooh, that’s right. _I’m_ the hero in this story.”

Athos snorted and shook his head.

“Right, so, here was this bloke in fancy clothes and too much hair gel, gettin’ worked over by a couple of goons and, naturally, I rushed in to save the day--”

“--Ugh--”

“--And good thing for it, since there was four of them and only one of him. Unfortunately, the cops got called on the lot of us and we ended up havin’ to share a jail cell. Well, five of us did anyway. Rich boy over here never even got past processin’. Mum and dad pulled a few strings before the ink was dry on his paperwork.”

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are never allowed to tell this story ever again.”

For the first time since getting in the car, Porthos let loose a big booming laugh. The sound bounced around in that small space, bringing a grudging smile to Athos’ face and a highly entertained one to Aramis’.

Okay, so maybe it was just as much a lovesick smile as it was entertained.

“Alright, alright. In all fairness, Athos did convince his parents to get me out of lockup and keep me from facin’ formal charges.”

“It was the least I could do for my saviour,” Athos said dryly.

Porthos chuckled. “They wouldn’t have thrown water on me if I was on fire, saviour or not. So they made him agree to a few...stipulations. I know there was more, but all I can ever remember is the three dates with a terrifying socialite one…”

Athos winced and rolled his eyes back to the roof. “Christ. Felicia Blackwell.” 

“Thaaat’s right. Felicia. Took a bullet for a stranger with that one, mate.”

“That bad?” Aramis chimed in, smirking sideways at Athos.

He received a magnificently grumpy squint in return.

“She handed me a typed list on the first date and said it was the schools our _two_ children were to attend.”

It was a little cruel to enjoy Athos’ misfortune, but as he had obviously survived unscathed, Aramis let himself laugh. Possibly a little too loudly. 

“And I repaid you for sufferin’ on my account by draggin’ your arse into the army a few years down the road. Aren’t you so glad you met me?” Porthos teased.

Aramis pulled into a car park in the few seconds of silence before Athos replied. 

“...You have no idea how glad I actually am, Porthos.”

Porthos seemed momentarily taken aback by this sentimentality, but as soon as Aramis cooed an exaggerated “awwwww”, he was back to laughing again.

Sparing an amused glare for Aramis, Athos got out of the car the moment it was put into park. He shut the door forcefully behind him, leaving Porthos choking on another laugh as Aramis held open the driver’s side to let him out.

Something about climbing out of the car shoved Porthos back into somber mode, unfortunately. Maybe it was the long glance he sent towards their destination. It was a seedy nightclub, oozing loud music and a steady flow of patrons.There was a pair of flats upstairs, and Flea was holed up in one of them. Or at least that’s what Aramis had gathered from what little Porthos had said when he’d given him the address.

“Hey,” Aramis whispered, snagging Porthos’ attention with a hand fisted into the collar of his coat. “Whatever this is, we’ll fix it. We’ll get her out of there and somewhere safe.”

Porthos grimaced and grabbed Aramis by the face, kissing him quick and hard before dropping his hands away. “Just...remember your promise, alright?”

He waited for a response, eyebrows raised and dark eyes insistent. It occurred to Aramis that anything that made Porthos this nervous, not to mention anything involving a man labeled a crime lord, _was_ probably a terrible idea. But there was no turning back now. Even if it was an option, there wasn’t a chance in hell he was letting Porthos anywhere near this situation without Aramis watching his back.

“Just don’t ask me to leave and I’ll keep my word.”

Porthos smirked, tugging Aramis’ hand away from his chest. He held onto it for a moment as they came around the car to stand with Athos.

“Alright, so. Short version. Charon took a job he shouldn’t have, cocked it up, and then bailed. Flea won’t tell me much more than that, except that she came home to Labarge’s cronies. These are the kind of people who have buried bodies where no one will ever find them so...for God’s sake, keep your heads down, follow my lead, and _don’t be memorable_. Labarge knows me so his men might too. There’s a smaller chance one of ‘em will recognise Athos. But they don’t know you, Aramis, and it’s gonna fucking stay that way.”

Squeezing Aramis’ hand, Porthos frowned at him for a long moment and then opened his mouth to say something else.

“I’m already here, Porthos,” Aramis cut in, returning the hand squeeze before letting go. “I’m going in. And everything’s going to be fine.”

Athos watched quietly as Porthos turned his formidable stare on the club. “It better be.”

 

* * *

 

Inside, the club was just as seedy. Badly lit, horrendously decorated, and, from what Aramis had overheard as they passed the bar, outrageously overpriced. But the music was surprisingly good and the patrons were varied. 

In the two minutes since they’d entered, they’d cut around the edge of the dance floor and were moving through the tables blocking a set of stairs in the northwest corner of the building. Aramis kept scanning his surroundings, but he was painfully aware that he didn’t have their training. If he’d been asked, he’d have admitted that there were more than two dozen people in the club that set off alarm bells of the _Danger, Danger_ variety, and that made him fairly useless as any sort of warning system. He could, however, keep his eyes on Porthos and Athos, their immediate surroundings, and follow quietly behind them.

They made it halfway up the stairs before a militantly beautiful woman, and two square men who looked like cookie-cutter versions of each other, stepped into the stairwell below them.

Aramis murmured a quiet warning. “ _Porthos_...”

Porthos shot a glance over his shoulder, his eyebrows snapping together at the group following up after them. Jerking to a stop, he urged Athos and Aramis past him with a wave of his arm

“Go on then. It’s the door on the left.”

Were they really meant to leave him outnumbered? It was the first time Porthos had asked something of him since they entered the club and already Aramis was balking. _Mentally_ balking, but still. Aramis frowned and looked to Athos, hoping that maybe he’d find some support there, but Athos had already turned his back and was stalking across the landing towards the two doors at the far end. 

A tense glare from Porthos finally sent Aramis the rest of the way up, but he kept watch on the hostile group as he went.

“Porthos!” the woman crowed, holding her arms out like she expected a hug. “It’s been a long time. Where oh where have you been hiding? I heard the military, but that can’t be right. Everyone knows you don’t play well with others.”

“Still cranky because I wouldn’t lick shit off the Cardinal’s boots with ya? It’s been over a decade, Maria. Time to let it go.”

Aramis didn’t get to hear any more. He only had time to note that Porthos - the same man who’d gently entertained eight squealing six year olds a few hours before - was now blocking the stairs with the imposing nature of a half dozen men combined.

Stealing Aramis’ focus away, Flea opened her door and peeked out of them, a menacing glare at the ready.

“Athos!” she sighed, her expression sagging into relief. She opened the door wider and started to stick her head out. “Where’s--”

“He’s keeping your guard dogs busy. Are you ready?”

Nodding, Flea hurried away from the door for a second and came back with three small bags slung over her shoulder. It was then that she met Aramis’ curious gaze. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he might not have noticed the way her mouth twitched with an almost imperceptibly smirk. As it was, he was distracted by the bruise high on her cheek and the small cut at the corner of her eye.

“You must be Aramis. He won’t bloody shut up about you.”

Aramis was torn between flushing with warmth and thinking too hard. He’d only heard the occasional anecdote about Flea, nothing too personal or revealing. No doubt, Porthos would always be intensely protective of someone he grew up with. Staring at her now, he wondered if this pretty - and clearly fierce - woman had ever been something other than Porthos’ _friend_.

Giving himself a mental shake, Aramis kept his smile respectfully somber in deference to the seriousness of the situation. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s my sincere pleasure to meet you all the same.”

“Ooh, aren’t you a fancy talker. Let’s get this show on the road. The proper inquisition can wait.”

Snorting a tiny laugh, Aramis bowed slightly. “It's kind of you to warn me, at least.”

Flea stepped out onto the landing. “Yeah, well...Porthos,” she shrugged, like that was all the reason required. 

Aramis understood that mindset so well already that he couldn’t help but smile fondly at her.

That smile was painfully swept from his face, along with the desire to ask if she was all right, as they neared the stairs. Porthos was now practically nose to nose with one of the men.

“Back. The fuck. Up,” Porthos hissed.

With a tired sigh, Maria inspected her nails from where she was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Porthos, you know that’s not how this works. Labarge made the effort of coming here to talk. So. You _talk_ , and we let everyone go on their merry way. That’s the only way this ends without a mess.”

Aramis didn’t like the sound of that, but he liked the look of consideration on Porthos’ face even less. Hurrying over to the stairs, he stepped down to stand supportively behind him. “There are four of us, three of you, and a club full of witnesses a few feet away. We’re leaving.”

Unfortunately, Aramis didn’t realise his mistake until Porthos blew a loud breath out through his nose and Maria swiveled her shrewd gaze his way. He’d drawn attention to himself. Now all three of them were staring at him and Porthos seemed to be in the process of growing larger, as if he thought standing taller would block their view of Aramis and make them forget he was even there.

“Is that so? Who’s your friend, Porthos?” Maria asked, taking a step closer to the first stair. 

Instead of answering her, Porthos pushed Tweedle Dee backwards, knocking him into Tweedle Dum. “Just take me to Labarge,” he growled.

“Porthos, that’s not--”

Porthos cut Aramis off by turning around so sharply that Aramis nearly fell back on his arse. Grabbing him by the biceps, Porthos dropped his voice to a choked whisper. “Transportation doesn’t get a fucking vote. Just get out of here, goddamn it.”

Despite the harsh words, Aramis could hear the fear in Porthos’ voice. And maybe that should have given him pause, but Porthos wasn’t the only one who was stubborn.

Aramis narrowed his eyes. “I...am...not...leaving.”

Porthos made a frustrated noise and flapped his arms to his sides. “For fuck’s sake, you _promised_.”

“ _And I told you what my one stipulation was_.”

They were whisper-shouting now, oblivious to their audience, and they were so close that Aramis could see the gold in Porthos’ brown eyes. He could see the worry there, too, like the blur of a sea beast swimming through dark waters. 

But as much as he hated putting Porthos in this position, he refused to leave him in the hands of at least four hostile people. That was simply not an option.

“In the spirit of expediency, might I suggest that we _all_ come along?” Athos sighed.

Before Porthos could balk, Maria smiled brightly and said, “I’d heard you were a reasonable sort, de la Fère. I’m glad to see that’s true. Come along, then.” She spun on a heel and walked towards a door set into the back wall of the building.

Porthos didn’t immediately move, so Aramis attempted to step around him. One more miscalculation, it would seem, since Porthos blocked his path and leaned in.

“You don’t know what you’re dealin’ with.”

“No, I’m sure I don’t,” Aramis admitted. He quickly followed the statement up with a lifted chin and a subtle pull on Porthos’ lapel. “But at least now we’ll deal with it together, hm?”

Porthos exhaled, sounding so exhausted that Aramis wanted to hug him, make promises, do whatever it took to ease his troubled heart. But Aramis was still a little angry at him for trying to drive him off in the first place, so he merely nudged Porthos around to start their uneasy parade to the exit. Maria led them to a large black car waiting in a dark alley out back. 

Apparently, some clichés rang true in the criminal underworld. 

As they neared the car, the back door opened and a large man stepped out, presumably the illustrious Labarge. His voice sounded like gravel scraped under the heel of a shoe.

“You should’ve stayed outta this.”

“Yeah, well…,” Porthos grunted. “Too late for that. What do you want?”

“My money. And Charon’s head on a platter.” Labarge’s smile was that of a shark, but his tone stayed weirdly amiable. He lifted his eyebrows when Porthos took a step closer and everyone tensed.

“You know that’s not gonna fucking happen.”

Waving off his men, Labarge countered Porthos’ intimidation with some of his own. “You don’t wanna make an enemy of me, Porthos. You know what that would mean.”

“How much does he owe you?”

Athos’ question turned everyone’s attention his way. He hardly blinked. Aramis was feeling more out of his depth by the second, but at least Athos was still his stonecold self.

Labarge watched him for a second and then answered, “Fifty grand.”

Fifty grand was more than Aramis made in a year, but Athos still didn’t so much as twitch.

“Done.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows and stared on in shock as Porthos spun around and nearly shouted in Athos’ face, “No! Fuck no!” 

Flea flinched at Aramis’ shoulder.

“Porthos.”

“No fuckin’ way, Athos!”

A switch seemed to flip, because Athos went from cool and collected to furious in the blink of an eye. “This is the _only fucking way_ and you bloody well _know_ it.”

Porthos shrunk a little, and his voice came out defeated. “There’s gotta be another way, we just have to figure it out…”

“No. I’ll pay the debt and Labarge will forget about us, about Charon and Flea, and never come back here again. Not him, not his men. That’s the deal.” Athos was talking to Labarge now, over Porthos’ shoulder, and the intimidating man was looking at him with amused interest. He even chuckled.

“Fifty only clears the debt. It’s another ten for the rest.”

“ _Athos_ , don’t--”

“Fine.”

Labarge grinned, looking relaxed and carefree. It seemed he’d forgotten about them all already. “Maria will give you an address for delivery. You have three days.”

Athos nodded sharply and quickly turned to take a business card with an address scribbled on it from Maria. He was clearly hoping to end this wretched business as fast as possible.

But Porthos wasn’t so easily forgotten.

One second people were shuffling away, and Labarge was reaching for his car door. The next second Porthos was spinning Labarge around to punch him square in the throat.

The rest happened in a blur. The not-twins leapt on Porthos as Labarge stumbled back against the car, and Athos and Aramis jumped on them in turn. There was a few minutes of wrestling, a number of punches thrown, and the sick crunch of something breaking. Whatever it was, it didn’t belong to Aramis. He did take an elbow to the gut at some point, however, and was doubled over when Labarge shouted, “Enough!!”

Aramis’ head was spinning when he realised Maria was sitting on Porthos’ chest with a knife held to his throat. Blood rolled to the concrete, from a cut she’d already left along his cheek. Aramis hadn’t even seen when she joined the fight. 

Porthos growled up at her, his chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath.

Aramis, on the other hand, stopped breathing altogether. 

“Enough,” Labarge repeated angrily, dropping his hand away from his throat. “Fuckin’ animal doesn’t know when to walk away. But I’m gonna forgive and forget because I _want_ my bleedin’ _money_.” 

Labarge jerked his chin at Maria and she climbed off of Porthos. She kept the knife pointed at him as she slowly stood, only slipping it back into her boot once she was out of reach and climbing into the driver’s seat of the car. Porthos watched her until she was out of sight, then rolled to his feet as Labarge opened his door.

“Make it two days, de la Fère. Or I’ll remember every second of this.”

With that demand hanging in the air, Labarge got in the car and they drove away. The two lackeys left behind climbed into a grey sedan, one of them cradling his arm, and then they followed suit.

The moment the cars were out of sight, Athos hissed, “What the hell were you _thinking_?”

“I was thinkin’ that slimy fuck shouldn’t get away with this!”

Aramis felt his breath come back in a rush, but he didn’t join in. He was too busy rushing to Porthos’ side and grabbing him gently by the jaw so he could get a good look at the cut. Porthos calmed immediately under his touch.

“I--” Porthos sagged, closing his eyes. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. I don’t--I shouldn’t have put you all at risk like that.”

“Meaning you think you should have gone after him later, on your own,” Athos countered bitterly. “Because never hearing from you again is preferred to losing a little bit of money.”

Porthos shifted a frustrated stare to Athos. “Sixty grand is more than a _little bit_ of money, you pompous tit. It’s a lot of money! It’s--” 

Aramis felt Porthos still beneath his touch and looked up to follow his gaze. He was staring hard at Flea, his eyes growing larger. She seemed to recognise the problem faster than Aramis did, thank God.

“Don’t you bloody start up again! I’m fine! Hardly the first time I’ve been roughed up a little and it didn’t cost me sixty grand either.” 

Aramis wasn’t sure how _fine_ she really was, seeing as her voice shook, but then a lot had happened in the last few minutes. He doubted his own voice would be calm if he tried to speak right now. 

“Flea…”

“ _Porthos_ , I’m fine. Really. I’m...damn it, I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. I didn’t know what to do.” Flea huffed and crossed her arms. “I still don’t know what to do. Athos, you don’t have to--”

“Let me stop you there. I can afford it. Easily. And it’s worth it to get you in the clear. To get us _all_ in the clear.”

An emotion passed over Flea’s face that Aramis couldn’t pin down. Gratitude with an undercurrent of resentment, perhaps. He couldn’t imagine the resentment was aimed at Athos. It was probably aimed at Charon, the elusive source of all this trouble. Or maybe it frustrated her that she had to accept Athos’ money. Whatever it was, she schooled her face quickly enough and reached over to squeeze Athos’ arm.

“Thank you.”

Athos mustered up a slight smile and nodded, taking her hand and holding it between both of his own. “I’m happy to do it, Flea. Porthos isn’t the only one who cares about you,” he added with a pointed look in Porthos’ direction.

That seemed to snap Porthos out of the dregs of his fury-induced haze. He sighed, loudly and with concentrated effort.

“I know, I know. I’m an ungrateful shit.”

“You said it, not me,” Athos smirked.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s already forgiven, Porthos. Just don’t go off half-cocked and get yourself hurt. Please.”

“I hate to ruin this moment...” Aramis cut in, emotions he hadn’t quite sorted through leaving the words strung tight as a wire. “But I need to see to this cut. Can we please get the hell out of here?”

Porthos gave him a regretful look, and those sad eyes would probably have worked wonders in a less fraught situation, but as things stood, Aramis only turned away from him and headed for the car park.

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last time either, Aramis felt Athos and Porthos share a heavy look before they followed his lead.

 

* * *

 

Flea was tucked away in the spare room with Aramis’ best wine and Athos had gone home. Or possibly to make arrangements for the money. Either way, they were alone. There was a homemade first aid kit spread out next to the sink and Porthos sat on the toilet, legs spread to give Aramis access to his injured face. Aramis carefully cleaned the wound until he could see it properly. 

“You need a few stitches. It will probably scar.”

His own voice sounded foreign to him. 

No, that wasn’t quite right. He sounded like his mother when she was angry. So carefully spoken and yet so obviously upset. Because he was just like her when it came to this - he wasn’t ready to voice his anger, but he petulantly wanted Porthos to know there _was_ anger, stewing just below the surface, and any second now he was going to put it into words.

“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s my first,” Porthos whispered. He hadn’t stopped giving Aramis those big brown eyes since they got in the car. Worse, they were getting more despondent by the second. It wasn’t fair, really. Here Aramis was working up a good fit and Porthos looked like a puppy waiting to be kicked.

“Are we havin’ our first fight?”

Aramis quietly sighed, but didn’t say anything as he readied a needle for the stitches.

Porthos tried again. “Did I mention I’m really sorry?” 

Aramis squinted at him and framed his cheek with one hand, poising the needle above his split flesh. “It’s only two or three stitches so you’ll have to do without painkillers.”

“Really, _truly_ , get-on-my-knees sorry?”

“Hold still.”

Porthos’ shoulders fell and he lapsed into silence, but he never stopped watching Aramis’ face. When the stitches were done, Aramis patted the wound with more antiseptic and covered it with a small square bandage.

“How is your lip?”

Confusion swept across Porthos’ face, but then his tongue darted out to poke at the cut to side of his bottom lip. “Oh. Fine. Didn’t notice.”

Aramis nodded curtly. “Keep an eye on it.” He turned towards the sink to repack his kit and stow it away under the sink. Before he could decide whether to leave the room in a huff or have it out now, he felt the tentative press of Porthos’ palm against his back.

“I didn’t mean for you to get sucked into all of this. If I could go back--”

“--That’s what you think this about?” Aramis turned around, frowning sharply. “ _Porthos_. You nearly got yourself killed today. You tried to run me off and then you nearly got yourself _killed_.”

“I…” Porthos grimaced and ran a hand over his face. “Sorry probably doesn’t cut it. Not exactly what you signed up for, eh?” 

Aramis felt his anger roll up and over him, but with it came the understanding that it wasn’t really anger. It was fear. He’d been so fucking _terrified_. If he’d had to watch this man get murdered right in front him…

Jesus. There would be no coming back from that.

“Don’t be an idiot. I signed up for all of you. I just didn’t realise that _hardheaded and suicidal_ were part of the package.”

“I’m not suicidal. Shit at thinkin’ things through, maybe, but not suicidal.” Irritation pinched the skin between Porthos’ eyebrows. “He deserves worse, Aramis. You don’t know what he’s capable of. What he does for the Cardinal without battin’ an eye.”

“I get the picture, Porthos. That’s _exactly why it was suicidal_. And you would have done it all without any backup if you’d had a choice!”

Porthos frowned. He appeared to be inching away from regret and towards his own little fit. “Look, I’m sorry about how that went down, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s a lot of fucked up history there. I had to try and get you all out of there. If they figured out what you mean to me--”

Snagging Porthos’ by the back of his neck, Aramis crouched to look him straight in the eye. “If we hadn’t been there, you’d be on your way to an unmarked grave. You said so yourself. Do you have any idea what that would do to--” 

Aramis cut himself off, releasing Porthos to drop his head into his hands as he sat down on the tub’s edge. He was thinking selfishly, he knew that. What that would do to _me_. Me, me, me. 

But that didn’t change the fact that seeing a knife to Porthos’ throat had been the most petrifying few seconds of his life. 

A handful of days, he reminded himself again. 

A handful of days and Porthos’ life was as vital to him as breathing. How fucking _insane_ was that?

Porthos curled a hand gently into Aramis’ hair and waited until Aramis looked at him.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I...I am hardheaded and sometimes I do things I know are dangerous and stupid. I just...I can’t bear injustice, Aramis. I see it happening, I see some awful bastard getting exactly what he wants at the expense of others, and I lose my head. I’ll...I’ll try to be better, alright?” Porthos’ eyes turned subtly pleading. “Just please, don’t give up on me yet.”

Aramis sagged, rubbing his cheek against Porthos’ wrist. “I don’t know that I could give up you, Porthos. Even if I wanted to.”

That admission pulled a slow crooked smirk out of Porthos. “Now that I’m not sorry about.”

Aramis gave him a side-eye glare, but it didn’t have any heat. “No more assaulting murderers.”

“What if I’m the one about to get murdered?”

“Ugh. Well, _obviously_.”

Porthos smirked a little wider.

“Stop,” Aramis commanded childishly. Unsurprisingly, that only inched the smirk into an irritatingly perfect smile. “ _Stop_.”

Porthos laughed and leaned forward to press a kiss to Aramis’ mouth. Aramis’ heartbeat jumped, but that was nothing compared to the sharp stutter that followed, when the next words fell out of Porthos’ mouth.

“God, I love you,” he sighed.

Logically speaking, Aramis was aware of where he was and that there were ambient noises in any standard bathroom. Water dripping. Ventilation whirring. But in that moment, he couldn’t hear anything but the rushing of his own blood in his head. He wasn’t even sure if he was still sitting or if breathing was really all that important in the grand scheme of things.

Porthos stuttered out a nervous breath. His eyes were wide, but not with surprise. 

“Uh. Right, so. Iiii...know that’s completely mental to say.”

Aramis blinked, but motor function beyond that seemed to have abandoned him.

“Breathe, Aramis.”

Aramis did as he was told, and then blew the air out through his pursed lips for what felt like a week. 

Porthos snorted. “Nice. Look…” He cleared his throat and shifted his hand from Aramis’ neck to the back of his own. “Don’t freak out on me, alright? I know it’s mental and I know we’ve had a…,” Porthos laughed mid-sentence, “...a crazy day. I don’t want to scare you off, I just--I always swore when I felt it, when I really fucking felt it, I would say it. So stop lookin’ like a deer caught in headlights and come watch some mindless tv with me, okay?”

When Porthos’ own panic seeped into that last sentence, Aramis realised he was still just sitting there, staring, like his mind had wandered off for a snack and had forgotten to come back.

No one had ever said it first.

Aramis said it first. Aramis always said it first. 

Aramis shouted it from rooftops. 

And then, inevitably, watched as everything came tumbling down, sooner or later. Sometimes it hurt more than others, which made him wonder if he said it because it was real or if he said it because he was so desperate to have someone love him back that he shoved it anyone who fit a bare minimum criteria.

No one. Had ever. Said it first.

More importantly, there’d never been anyone he wanted to say it first _more_ than Porthos.

Which made the fact that he was suddenly, mind-numbingly, gripped with terror so completely and utterly _baffling_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Porthos' confession and the boys unloading $60,000 in a duffle bag. Aramis is dumb until he's not, basically. (And even then, he kinda sorta is.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the massive delay. My Christmas present was crippling writer's block, apparently. Hopefully, this makes up for the wait!

_Aramis,_

_There’s coffee. And muffins. Left them in the oven so they’d stay_  
 _warm some. ~~I don’t~~ I’m off to look for work. Be careful out_  
 _there. Snowstorm’s coming in._

_Porthos_

_P.S. You were talking in your sleep. Apparently there were drunk  
penguins involved. Consider me amused and curious as fuck._

Aramis read the note twice, as if analysing the slope of Porthos’ handwriting would give him some insight as to where the man’s head was currently. Was he hurt? Exactly how much damage had been done when Aramis sat next to him on the sofa and hardly said a word all night? Fortunately, the note still held Porthos’ affectionate tone, and the cheerfulness at the end settled Aramis’ anxious heart rate. 

It appeared that Porthos was trying to give him some space. That was the less painful assumption, anyway. It was only seven in the morning and Porthos had been up long enough to bake, probably shower and shave, and then vacate the flat. The kitchen smelled of cranberry-orange muffins and a better brand of coffee than Aramis remembered buying. 

Somehow, Porthos’ absence seemed sharper because of it. 

Sparing an irritated sigh for himself, Aramis filled a mug and took a muffin back toward his bedroom, only to nearly end up with a face full of hot coffee when Flea came stumbling out of the spare.

“Oh! Sorry!” she hissed, hands out to steady him and his mug.

“I forgive you. Just try to use your turn signal next time.”

“Ha!” Her laugh came out a pained whisper as she squinted one-eyed at him. “Well, a horn was certainly out of the question. My fool head couldn’t handle it right now.”

Concern softened Aramis’ gaze, his thoughts immediately turning to her injuries. “Are you all right? I have ice packs in the freezer. And a better than adequate medicine cabinet.”

Flea smirked and shrugged off his worry. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Feeling short-sighted and hungover, is all. The Great Motherhen left water and aspirin by the bed, but I smelled coffee.”

“Ah.” Aramis smiled sympathetically. “You’re welcome to it. And anything else in the kitchen you’d like.”

“Thank you. You…,” Flea shifted, her smile turning softer. “You’re very kind to let me stay here. I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Aramis waved a hand dismissively and then covered his heart with it. “Please. Stay as long as you need. I feel better knowing that you’re safe here.”

That seemed to surprise Flea, and an amusing flash of suspicion narrowed her eyes. Chuckling quietly, Aramis gestured towards the kitchen with his muffin. 

“I promise I’m not up to anything. Make yourself at home. I have to get ready for work but I would be happy to talk more with you tonight. I believe I’m still due for an interrogation?” he smirked, lifting his eyebrows.

Suspicion gave way to amusement and Flea flashed a wily smile back at him. “Oh yes. Count on it.”

“Ha. I look forward to it.” Giving her a cheeky little bow, Aramis took a grinning bite into his muffin and held it there in his mouth as he headed into his bedroom.

Outside the windows, snow was falling. Slowly at first, then steady and unrelenting. By the time he was showered and dressed, there was little to note beyond the white and grey but the crawling traffic of Paris’ employed and the truly stubborn, shuffling along the sidewalk with their features completely obscured by hood and scarf. 

Aramis turned away from the window with a leaden sense of dread in his gut.

It was going to be a long, cold day.

 

* * *

 

In truth, it was a long, cold, _miserable_ day. His commute was wretched and he was twenty minutes late. Two of the babies deposited into his care were especially unhappy with the world and none of his usual methods of easing infant distress had any effect. By the time he limped back into the flat, his head was ringing with the ghosts of anxious cries and his shoulders ached with tension. To top it off, his car was starting to make a deathbed rattle. And he was freezing down to his damp socks. 

The flat was warm, though. And quiet. Aramis shrugged out of his coat at the door and kicked off his muddy boots. 

“Porthos?” he called out, knit cap and scarf removed with an exhausted tug while he waited for an answer.

Unfortunately, the man that had hovered in Aramis’ thoughts all day did not come swaggering out to say hello.

And yet, the heat was on high and the kitchen was lit. They’d had a talk the first day about the criminality of utility bills, so either Porthos had forgotten Aramis’ colourful language or, the more likely answer, he’d been home recently and then _left_ , knowing approximately when Aramis would arrive and therefore leaving the heat on for him.

Aramis frowned and headed for the kitchen, looking for another note. 

What he found was a large pot of stew on the stovetop. Deliciously rustic looking stew, still steaming even, but no note. And definitely no Porthos. 

Aramis huffed, massaging the back of his aching neck. It wasn’t as if Porthos was required to be there waiting for him when he got home or even to let him know where he was every minute of the day. But if Porthos was going to _avoid him like the plague_ \- apparently a plague that needed to be well fed - then the least he could do was keep Aramis informed as to when he might return.

He was being childishly unfair. He knew that. He was tired and cold and tense. And he’d mucked things up royally. It was hardly right to clam up and then expect nothing to change. 

But God, he had really hoped nothing would change. At least long enough for him to get his head on straight.

Before he could tumble too far down the well of self-pity, Aramis heard shuffling sounds at the door and a loud bark of laughter, followed by a more feminine round of snickering. Porthos pushed through the door, dusted in snow, and Flea shoved him the rest of the way over the threshold.

Aramis felt his breath catch at the sight they made. It was practically coffee-commercial-quaint. Her cheeks were ruddy. Her smile was cheeky and familiar. Wisps of blonde hair stuck out from under her hood in charming disarray. Porthos looked happy and at ease, pulling off his cap and flapping the snow from it, right at Flea’s face.

“Oh, you shit!” she laughed, brushing snow from her lips as she elbowed past him.

Porthos shut the door with a warm, shameless laugh and then pulled two bags out from under the edge of his coat. One held a loaf of fresh bread. The other looked to carry pastries of some sort. 

But Aramis couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lazy smile on Porthos’ face. One of his dimples was making a solo appearance.

 _Dios mío_ , it was truly inexcusable. 

Aramis stepped out fully from the kitchen on impulse, drawn out of hiding by Porthos’ extraordinary smile, and maybe a little by the wave of jealousy in his gut. The movement pulled Porthos’ attention to him and that smile did something that felt to Aramis like nothing short of a punch in the throat: it flared impossibly brighter at the sight of him, for just a brief second, then it wavered and settled back into casual.

Like he’d _forced_ himself to stifle his joy.

Feeling his throat constrict, Aramis nearly tripped over his own feet. Thankfully, Porthos didn’t seem to notice that the idiot in front of him was drowning on air.

“Hey, you,” Porthos greeted softly. “How was your day?”

“ _Awful_.” 

Aramis blinked. The word had just sort of exploded out of him before he’d realised he’d even opened his mouth. He took two steps closer to the pair of them and managed an off-kilter smile before trying again. “Forgive me. What a terrible way to greet you both. Hello.”

A compassionate brand of smirk tugged at Porthos’ mouth. Those eyes of his were working overtime too, questioning and sympathising at once.

“S’alright. Must have been pretty bad for _your_ manners to go by the wayside. You wanna talk about it?”

Mouth curling in distaste, Aramis shook his head. “I really don’t. But thank you. For asking.”

“Course. If you change your mind…”

“You will be the first to know, Porthos.” 

Porthos smiled. With a gentle nod, he sat his bags down on the counter of the kitchen pass through and then moved back to the coat hooks by the door. His gaze was quick to swing back to Aramis, even as he started wriggling out of his sodden coat. 

It was too thin, that coat. Aramis would have to find Porthos a better one soon. As soon as possible.

“Jesus,” Flea grumbled teasingly, pushing past Porthos to hang her coat. “You’ve got _moon-eyes_ , the both of you.”

Porthos dropped his eyes to his feet. His smile was steady, but his laugh was a little brittle. “Shut your mouth.”

“What? I’m just saying. I’ve never seen you with moon-eyes. I’m sure I would remember that lovesick look on your dumb face.”

“I said, _leave it_ , Flea. Fuck’s sake,” Porthos growled. His movements were tense as he crouched down to untie his boots and left them by the door to dry, and Flea watched him with shrewd, narrowed eyes all the while.

Aramis felt that drowning feeling again.

“You know, you really didn’t need to go back out in this weather,” he choked out. “I’m sure the stew would have held up on its own. It...it smells delicious,” Aramis added somewhat lamely.

Sending a distracted smile over his shoulder, Porthos stood and padded into the kitchen in his socks. “Figured everything might shut down if this storm gets too bad in the next few days. We’ve got plenty to get by, but might as well grab a few nonessentials while it’s an option, yeah?”

“Mm, yes. Of course.” Aramis nudged the bags across the pass through. “Is there anything left that I can help with?”

“Nah, just gonna toast up some slices and we’ll be set.”

“Um, I’ll take some wine?” Flea interjected with a raised hand and a pointed raise of her eyebrows.

Huffing a laugh through his nose, Aramis notched his head apologetically and headed back into the kitchen. “Of course, allow me.”

Once they sat down with large helpings of stew, a buttered slab of bread sticking out of each bowl, things settled into a more comfortable rhythm. Mostly because Flea seemed to sense the awkwardness in the air and took control of the flow of conversation with ease. Which meant, Aramis answered rapid fire questions about neonatal nursing and his family for the better part of an hour. Porthos ate quietly and eventually leaned back in his chair to drink his wine with his eyes roaming back and forth between the two of them.

“Eight years...I’m actually impressed you don’t permanently smell of spit up. Or worse.”

“Yes, well. Good hygiene,” Aramis smirked. Joking aside, there was a look that kept passing over Flea’s face the longer they talked of babies. If he had to name it, he’d have called it longing. The thought turned his attention inevitably back to Porthos and whether these two had ever been on a path that could’ve lead to children.

Obviously unaware of where Aramis’ thoughts had shifted, Porthos seemed to think that quiet stare meant he was being silently asked for confirmation. “Must be good enough. You don’t hardly stink at all,” he offered, lifting his glass and winking over the rim.

Aramis sputtered out a laugh. “Such flattery! Please excuse me, Flea. I may need a moment to _swoon_.”

Laughter ricocheted around the table at that, and Porthos’ bright gaze on him may as well have been the brush of a hand up the inside of his thigh for how quickly it made Aramis’ skin tighten.

“Alright. Think that’s my cue to get another bottle of wine,” Flea chuckled, dramatically swooping to her feet.

 

* * *

 

Halfway through a television special that Aramis was only fractionally paying attention to in the first place, he climbed off the sofa and begged his leave. Long day, too much wine, etc. Flea gave him an understanding smile and waved him off, but Porthos looked unsure of whether to follow or not. Aramis took pity on him and leaned over the arm of the sofa to press a gentle kiss on his lips. 

“I’ll be asleep in a matter of seconds, Porthos,” Aramis murmured, close and quiet. “Please, don’t rush yourself off to bed just because I’m having an old man night.”

Porthos smiled, and brushed his nose alongside Aramis’ in a gentle caress. “Alright. Sleep well, Aramis.”

That parting followed Aramis to bed, warming his skin through. It was still doing a better job than the blankets even, when Porthos followed not long after. The sink of the bed prodded Aramis out of the early moments of sleep and he turned towards Porthos without a thought, starfishing around him and pulling the blankets over them both on instinct alone. With his face wedged into Porthos’ throat, Aramis felt Porthos sigh, the tangle of a hand in his hair, and then the sweet press of Porthos’ lips against his temple.

And for a long, precious moment, Aramis forgot to be afraid.

 

* * *

 

He thought about texting Porthos on four separate occasions during work the next day, but every time he started, he ended up closing the window after a few fumbling attempts. The majority of what he wanted to say, what he _needed_ to say, he should say in _person_ , but he was on day two of mentally flailing whenever he managed to get Porthos alone. 

As it was, he’d been the one to sneak out of bed this time, extra careful not to wake Porthos in the process. It was good that he had left so early though, seeing as the snow hadn’t let up. He’d made it to work on time and so far the day had been uneventful.

Which was probably why it was exceedingly difficult to focus. 

Staring at the screen of his mobile, Aramis finally made a call. Only to Athos, instead.

“I’m not interested.”

Aramis grinned at that greeting. “Well, I, for one, am _shocked_.”

Athos was silent for a moment. When his voice came back across the line, it was just a degree warmer. “Aramis.”

“I can pretend to be a telemarketer, if you prefer.”

“As fun as that sounds, I’ll pass. Is everything all right?”

The baffling urge to spill his guts to this man he hardly knew punched through Aramis, but he swallowed it down just in time to hear Porthos in the background, worriedly saying ‘ _well, is it_?’

“Everything’s fine,” Aramis quickly confirmed. He should have considered whether Porthos would be with Athos when he made this call. Now he was stuck, but he still had a purpose. “I just wanted to see when you were making the drop off.”

Another silent moment ticked by. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to go with you.”

“Why?” 

Aramis sighed, amusement and frustration vying for control. “ _Because_ those people are obviously dangerous. Even if you don’t end up needing a trained medical professional, it doesn’t hurt to have an extra person there.”

The phone sounded as if it was being covered, possibly pressed against Athos’ chest, but that didn’t stop Aramis from hearing snippets of a hastily whispered conversation. By the time Athos came back, Aramis was no longer amused.

Athos cleared his throat. “Thank you, but....that’s really not necessary.”

“Put him on the phone.”

“...I don’t--”

“ _Put him on the phone_.”

Athos sighed and then there was an assortment of scuffling sounds and an irritated growl. Eventually, Porthos came over the line sounding nervous. “Yeah?”

“Haven’t you learned your lesson?” 

“What?”

“Haven’t you learned your _lesson_ ,” Aramis hissed, no longer asking a question so much as making a point. “I am just as stubborn as you are and I won’t be kept away from this any more than you will.”

Porthos grunted wordlessly and Aramis could picture his face, eyes at a squint, nose and forehead scrunched in a mulish frown. It made Aramis smile in spite of himself, and his next words were gentler, but no less determined.

“Please don’t be difficult. I want to come with you.” 

It took a few seconds, but eventually Porthos muttered “goddamn it” goodnaturedly and exhaled for a long moment. “Come over after work,” he sighed. “You remember where Athos’ place is?”

“Yes. Should I bring anything?”

“Just you is more than enough.”

Aramis didn’t think Porthos meant anything by the statement, but it still carried weight across the line, like a brush of those incredible hands down Aramis’ back. He shivered.

“Okay. See you soon.”

 

* * *

 

Athos’ doorman was a hundred if he was a day, but he had a default disapproving glare that would have impressed even Aramis’ abuelita. Aramis cleaned off his boots as best as he could by kicking the bricks of the building before stepping inside and going upstairs. 

He stopped outside Athos’ door and took a moment to collect himself, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair. Feeling better than he had the day before didn’t mean he _looked_ better. Honestly, he hated winter for a long list of reasons, but since a snowstorm had delivered him Porthos, it was hard to muster up the same dramatic loathing he’d carried through his adult life. All he had to do was close his eyes for a moment and flashes of the airport would scroll through his mind, full of warmth and laughter. 

It was entirely possible that Porthos’ laughter was the cure to all ills.

Before he was ready, the door swung open to reveal Athos, backlit by the soft glow of his entryway chandelier. 

“Exactly how long do you intend to stand outside my door without knocking? I could come back.” 

Aramis chuckled quietly and stepped past Athos, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. “I was simply preparing myself for the adorableness of you and your cat. These things can’t be rushed.”

Athos snorted and shook his head, but that only made Aramis grin. With the door shut behind them, they turned to move into the flat’s living room. Porthos was there, looking somewhat like a cartoon villain facing stacks of money with said cat curled up in his lap. Well, he would have looked like a villain if he hadn’t lifted his head and smiled with childlike glee.

“I know this situation is shit, but it’s takin’ all my self-control not to toss this money on a bed and roll in it.”

Tucking his cap into his coat pocket, Aramis smiled and took a seat next to Porthos on the sofa. “Please tell me you’re naked in this fantasy.”

Porthos shot a crooked smirk his way. “Would serve Labarge right if I rubbed my dick all over his ill-gotten gains.”

Aramis laughed throatily with Athos’ sigh as a backdrop. Out of respect for their host, Aramis resisted the urge to remind Porthos that he had a more active participant to rub his dick on.

It _was_ a sight, though. All that money in neat little stacks. Porthos started moving them into a small duffel bag, only occasionally bringing them close to his nose or fanning himself with them. Aramis was grateful for Porthos’ ridiculousness. It eased what could have been a tense moment and it made Athos roll his eyes, so that was a bonus.

“If you’re quite finished.” Athos finished off a glass of wine and set it back on a side table. Moving with a soldier’s precision, Porthos handed over the bag and went to collect his coat. He only hesitated when Aramis rejoined him.

“Aramis…”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut this time. I swear.”

Relief, and a flicker of adoration, passed over Porthos face. He reached into Aramis’ pocket and withdrew his cap, pulling it down over Aramis’ hair as he leaned into his space. Aramis could nearly taste his skin with how close Porthos loomed.

“If everything goes as it should, none of us should need to say much at all.” Porthos ducked his head and murmured the rest against Aramis’ ear. “But if you want, I’ll give you a good reason to talk when we’re done here. Well...moan, anyway.”

Aramis hummed, reaching up to trail his fingers along the curve of Porthos’ ear and, gently, over the edge of the bandage on his cheek. He refused to ruin the moment by admitting he did need to talk, really _talk_. Porthos was more at ease than he had been in two days, and that was worth preserving.

He answered simply, instead.

“I want.”

 

* * *

 

It turned out the drop-off location was a pawn shop named Berny’s, so no one looked twice at them for carrying a bag inside. That was probably the point. The scrappy, moustached man behind the register lifted his eyebrows at the sight of Porthos and leaned forward to rest on his elbows. 

“Fuck me, you filled out, didn’t ya?” he greeted.

Porthos rolled his shoulders back, as if to let the reminder of his past cascade away and confirm his muscular bulk at the same time. “Not here to reminisce, Gabe. Maria tell you I was comin’?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gabe straightened up and glanced around the shop. Confirming it was empty, he turned a sharper gaze back towards the trio. “Well, she said a poncy fuck would be making a deposit, but that you’d probably be attached to his hip.” He paused. “More or less, o’course.”

“Right. Because Maria’s probably never uttered the words ‘poncy fuck’ in her life.” Porthos gestured between Athos and Gabe, and Athos sat the bag down on the counter.

“I don’t suppose I will be getting a receipt...,” Athos said dryly.

“Ha. Not in this lifetime. But don’t worry yourself. I’m not lookin’ to have Labarge rip my throat out anytime soon.” Gabe patted the bag. “This’ll get where it’s goin’.”

Athos stared him down with those terrifyingly penetrating eyes until eventually Gabe swallowed. Finally, Athos nodded and turned to Porthos. “Let’s go.”

Abruptly, Porthos slammed his hand down over Gabe’s on the bag, squeezing until the man’s bones cracked and he made a complaining squawk. 

“Don’t give me a reason to come back here, Gabe. Labarge might scare you, but I can be real bloody creative when I need to be,” Porthos growled.

Aramis felt his pulse pick up. Unfortunately, he couldn’t decide if it was from nerves or a startling pang of lust.

“Jesus, Porthos! I got the message!” Gabe whimpered.

Porthos nodded and released him. Shifting a slightly apprehensive glance towards Aramis, he turned them both towards the door with a light hand at Aramis’ elbow. Aramis waited until they got outside to stop Porthos’ progress with a hand of his own. 

Leaning closer to avoid having his words snatched away by the blustering wind, he whispered, “I need a moment. Alone.”

Porthos raised his eyebrows. “Now?”

“Now.”

Looking uncertain, Porthos told Athos to go ahead to car and that they would be along in a minute. Athos squinted, but said nothing as he left them behind. As soon as Athos was out of sight, Aramis pulled Porthos down the alley next to Berny’s. The ground was slick with ice and they were plunged into darkness only a few steps away from the lamps on the street, but it was empty and served Aramis’ purpose.

He didn’t need to see Porthos to know every inch of him, anyway.

Without warning, he fisted his hands into Porthos’ coat and hauled him into a square nook, pinning himself in a space hardly big enough for the both of them. He barely had to move at all to instigate the kiss. Porthos made a surprised ‘hpmh’ against his lips, but that quickly turned into a pleased groan. His hands came up to cradle Aramis’ face and he pressed in, tilting his head to dive into the heat of Aramis’ mouth with enthusiasm.

They kissed until Aramis felt the tips of his fingers going numb. He’d left his gloves at work in the rush to get to Porthos before he snuck away to the drop-off without him. Still, the warm weight of Porthos jamming him against the wall, and that incredibly hot mouth, was intoxicating. Even the scrape of Porthos’ beard helped distract from the cold. If it weren’t for snow piling up slowly around their feet, and the decidedly unpleasant nearness of Berny’s, Aramis would be crouching down to suck him off right then and there.

Porthos was the one to break away in the end, but he didn’t go far. His breath steamed out between their mouths and his fingers edged beneath Aramis’ cap, twisting possessively into his curls.

“So,” Porthos growled, low and satisfied. “We’re okay?”

Aramis lifted his hand and pressed his aching fingertips to the fullness of Porthos’ mouth. “Porthos...we’re so much better than _okay_.” 

This wasn’t the time or place to say anything more, but it seemed to be enough. Porthos’ grin lit up the darkness and he stole another kiss before pulling Aramis towards the alley’s exit.

“Hold that thought. Athos is too cautious to risk your battery runnin’ the heater, so he’s probably grumblin’ up a storm and freezin’ his arse off.”

Aramis smirked and he linked his fingers through Porthos’. “Poor poncy fuck.”

Porthos’ booming laugh bounced off the walls and sent a stray cat shooting out of hiding with a clatter of metal trash bin lids.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t make it back to their own flat before having the talk that needed to be had. They dropped Athos off, with a half-hearted apology from Aramis for leaving him waiting in the car - to which he’d replied, very succinctly, “liar” and then shut the car door. (In moments like these, Aramis was slightly - and borderline hysterically - worried that he was falling a little bit in love with Athos, too.) 

Halfway back to the flat, with Porthos quietly humming along to the staticky radio, Aramis abruptly turned into another underground parking lot and pulled into a corner spot. He kept the car running and his hands on the wheel. Porthos turned a curious stare his way.

“What--”

“Please, Porthos. Just let me speak while I still have the courage to do so.”

“...Alright,” Porthos frowned. He unlatched his seatbelt and turned towards Aramis, his hand nervously fidgeting with the material covering his knee. Aramis unhooked himself as well.

“I...have a habit of jumping into things. Worse, I have a habit of ignoring the facts of a given situation and seeing what I want to see, instead. In every...relationship I’ve ever been in, and I use that term lightly in some cases, I’ve been the one to…” Aramis shifted uneasily in his seat and met Porthos’ confused stare. “...To bring the word ‘love’ into it. To make some grand confession. And it has always, _always_ backfired.”

Porthos swallowed. It was hard to read the look in his eyes without much light to guide Aramis’ inspection, but it looked like he was trying to considerately listen and his anxiety was getting the better of him.

“You really don’t have to be there yet, Aramis--”

“--No, no, now, I asked you to _listen_ , so just hear me out.” To soften what came out sounding like censure, Aramis reached over and stroked up Porthos’ arm, twisting his hand palm up for equal attention. 

“Of all the times I’ve made that leap, I think there was only one time I ever loved with my whole heart. And the loss of that love, that life I’d imagined in my naïveté...I don’t know, I think it broke me in ways I’ve never really grasped.”

The heater coughed, but Aramis ignored it. His focus belonged to Porthos alone at the moment, and the interlocking of their fingers, which felt right and good.

“I’m not...I’m not ready to say it. But it’s not because I don’t _want_ to. It’s that...it’s _you_. Of course, I want to.”

Porthos frowned, but in an amused way. Aramis had to wonder if Porthos was just now realising exactly what kind of head case he’d fallen for.

“You are ridiculously easy to love, Porthos. I mean, your best friend is the most emotionally constipated person I have ever met and he would lay down in traffic for you. You inspire that. You are kind, and generous, and funny. You’re just so full of life, Porthos. Even if you weren’t _criminally attractive_ , you’d draw people to you. So when I say it, I need it to be--I need it to be...”

“ _Right_ ,” Porthos supplied, with a cheeky little smirk.

Aramis snorted a self-conscious laugh and closed his eyes for a moment. When he met Porthos’ gaze again, with a sassy tilt of his head, his own stare was unwittingly full of all the love he wasn’t prepared to admit out loud. “Yes, brat. I need it to be right. I need to _know_ I mean it with my whole heart. Because anything less simply isn’t _good enough_ for you.”

Porthos stayed silent for a moment, simply roaming his smiling eyes over Aramis’ face. Finally, he nodded, slow and careful.

“Alright. I understand. I just hope that doesn’t mean I have to stop bein’ arse over elbow for you, so as not to run you off. Cause honestly, I hate holdin’ back. I don’t wanna do it with you.”

Willing the warmth in his chest to let him breath, Aramis smiled. A part of him might even have been aware that he’d as much as said the words, and that Porthos had as much as said them _back_. But the stubborn part of him clung tightly to his convictions. 

Mean it. Mean it in his bones. 

Then, maybe, just maybe, he’d deserve Porthos.

“If the snoring hasn’t run me off, what makes you think anything can?”

Porthos let his head fall back against the headrest and laughed. The look he gave Aramis then, barely-lit darkness of the car interior be damned, was unquestionably scorching.

“Come here.”

Aramis lifted his eyebrows, an amused smile stretching across his mouth. “We are in a car park, you wretched tease.”

Porthos didn’t even blink. “Come. Here. _Please_.”

Laughing, Aramis did look around, at least with a half-assed attempt at concern. There wasn’t any activity that he could see and the lighting across the lot was dim. One last thought - _please let my mother never find out about this_ \- swam through his mind and then he was scrambling over the center console. 

It was not a graceful affair by any means. There were elbows and knees (and half a headbutt) involved, so by the time Aramis was settled, straddling Porthos’ lap, they were both bruised and laughing uncontrollably.

“Remind me to buy a bigger car,” Aramis wheezed.

“Nope. That was perfect.” 

Pushing Aramis’ coat halfway down his arms, Porthos kissed a frantic path down his exposed throat. Aramis arched, trapped but so very okay with that. He was decidedly _okay_ with everything at the moment. The painful press of the door and the center console on opposite sides of his knees. That flickering light in the opposite wall, barely glimpsed through the back windshield. Even the smell slipping through the air vents from an overworked heater didn’t bother him.

Every nip, every flick of Porthos’ tongue, overrode everything else until he was grinding down mindlessly against him. Porthos let go of the coat, clasping Aramis’ jaw, and kissed him with the same feverish need. Moaning into the kiss, Aramis reached down and pulled the lever that jerked the seat to a three-quarter recline. Porthos laughed.

With that delightful sound swallowed by his own mouth, Aramis slid his hands down Porthos’ chest, twisting his head to bite down into the flesh under his ear. 

“We are going to make a mess and it is entirely your fault. I just want you to know that I hold you responsible,” Aramis hummed, even as he shifted enough to reach between them. 

Porthos started to choke out a reply, but Aramis kissed him again. His could’ve-been-a-surgeon hands worked deftly to undo Porthos’ jeans and dipped under his underwear to free his cock, then he did the same for himself. Lifting up enough to enjoy Porthos’ dark gaze hungrily watching him, he leisurely licked his palm and wrapped it around the both of them.

Porthos groaned. His head thunked back against the headrest, but his eyes never closed. 

Jerking them both off ended up no more graceful than the climb into the passenger seat, but it didn’t need to be. It was hot and hurried, Aramis’ free hand twisted up into Porthos’ shirt to expose his flexing stomach and Porthos hands digging into his ass, pulling him into each rough thrust of cock against cock. They were dripping sweat and panting into each other’s mouths by the time Porthos clenched tight, spilling over his own stomach. Aramis followed immediately after, because how could he do anything _but_. The full-bodied, shivering moan that rolled through Porthos took any choice out of the matter.

Aramis sagged against Porthos and Porthos let out the kind of dirty chuckle that made Aramis feel like he was still coming. He managed a groan, though, with the realisation that he’d sank down into the mess on Porthos’ stomach.

“Ugh,” Aramis whined, lifting up to inspect himself.

“Shut up.”

“Excuse _you_ ,” Aramis laughed.

“It was worth it, you know it was. And hey, none got on your coat,” Porthos smirked. “Your honour will stay intact when we crawl our way up to the flat.”

Aramis huffed, feigning indignance rather badly all in all. After a second passed, he met Porthos’ unrepentant stare with a pornographic one.

“Entirely and unquestionably worth it,” Aramis whispered conspiratorially. “I suppose all that’s left is for me to make _you_ presentable.”

Aramis wiggled down Porthos’ body, squishing his legs down into the footwell. He stared up the length of the man beneath him as he lowered his mouth to Porthos’ stomach and felt delirious at the filthy, _filthy_ grin that his actions earned him.

But then, Aramis had always known, it paid to be thorough and generous with one’s tongue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys help Flea move (with bonus!d'Artagnan), have a long-coming run-in with Charon, and end up at a karaoke bar. After which, I abuse two of my favorite tropes - snowed in and trapped in a tight space. Not even a little sorry.

The next four days were quiet. Well, _relatively_ quiet.

Snow continued to fall, day after day. But it was light enough that the city easily shouldered the storm, as it had countless times before. Aramis might have fallen into a theatrical melancholy over it anyway, once upon a time. But it was difficult to complain about the weather when he was waking up every morning in the arms of Porthos, The Human Furnace.

Even if Flea was slowly, and methodically, driving the poor man insane.

“I swear to Christ, she does this shit on purpose.”

Aramis resolutely did not look at the beautifully grumpy man next to him. If he stopped stuffing toast into his mouth, he would let a laugh escape his trembling lips, and then that dark glare would stop being aimed at an empty coffee pot and start being aimed at _him_. Thank you, but no thank you. 

Well, maybe if they didn’t have things to do this morning. But they did have things to do. That were, regrettably, not each other.

Unfortunately, Aramis’ blinking facade of innocence didn’t seem to help matters much either.

“Three days of this, Aramis!” Porthos growled, picking up the pot and jabbing it in Aramis’ direction. 

Aramis lifted his hands in submission, half-eaten toast dangling from his fingers. “Four, actually.”

Now those annoyed eyes did turn his way, narrowing into a confused glower. A smirk twitched at Aramis’ mouth, but he fought it with all the self-control he possessed.

“She did it yesterday too, but I caught it while you were in the shower and quickly brewed another,” Aramis shrugged, shoving the last of the toast into his mouth.

Porthos made a disgusted noise. The pot was jammed back into its place with only a slight clack of glass meeting plastic. “If I thought it would make a damn bit of difference, I’d throw that ridiculously giant travel mug in the garbage.”

“Hey. That’s _my_ mug.”

“Oh, I know. I watched you hand her the bloody thing.”

Aramis did chuckle then, partly because Porthos’ eyes glittered with mischief despite his frustration, and partly because Aramis enjoyed this back and forth so much that it made him dizzy. He tried to be diplomatic, but he was getting lost in Porthos’ stare, so the heat in his voice wasn’t neutral in the slightest.

“I had no way of knowing it would be such a...bone of contention.”

Rumbling a laugh, Porthos reached for him. “I’ll show you a _bone of contention_.” 

He pulled Aramis into his space, tangling his long fingers into Aramis’ hair, and he kissed the next laugh away before it could fully form. Aramis was not even a little embarrassed at how he sagged in against him. Or how his legs started to give completely when the kiss turned unexpectedly sharp.

Porthos eased back, licking his lips. “Fuck. You taste like apricot jam." The hungry gleam in his eyes brought a hiss of breath through Aramis’ teeth, even before the next words were delivered with a brazen smirk. “Which gives me an idea…,” 

“Please tell me you’re not going to stick his dick in the jam until _after_ I leave.” 

Flea’s droll interruption made Porthos groan and drop his head to Aramis’ shoulder. Snickering, Aramis pressed a sympathetic kiss to his temple. 

“Hold that thought?” Aramis whispered. Muffled, husky laughter vibrated against his shoulder in response.

Flea rested a hip against the counter and took a long, loud sip from a massive travel mug. That was bad enough on its own, but it was the smacking “aaahh” of satisfaction afterwards that really tipped the scales. Really, there was only so much a man could take.

Porthos chased a cackling Flea down the hallway just before the doorbell rang. Aramis might have been jealous of the same scene days ago, but he’d seen enough of the two of them together now to know that, whatever they might have been once, their relationship was purely familial now. Unshakably so, and beautiful besides. So Aramis only laughed and went to open the door. 

On the other side was Athos, carrying a pastry box. Aramis lifted his eyebrows and made a show of checking the watch he absolutely wasn’t wearing.

“It’s not even nine. Did your house catch fire? Is Ninon all right?”

Athos rolled his eyes with spectacular self-restraint and, unsurprisingly, didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he squinted past Aramis as a loud thump sounded from the spare bedroom, followed by a colourful string of curse words and a bawdy laugh.

“Have I come too late? Is Flea being joyfully strangled as we speak?”

Chuckling, Aramis opened the box in Athos’ arms without taking it from him. The affectionately judgmental squint it earned him was exactly the reward he’d hoped to gain.

“Probably not,” Aramis murmured cheerfully as he picked through the pastries. “There was a sketchy moment yesterday, when she alphabetised his record collection only minutes after he finished organising it by genre, but I distracted him before anything untoward could happen.”

Before Athos could do much more than snort in response, d’Artagnan’s door opened and out stepped his absentee neighbour. It had been weeks now since Aramis had laid eyes on him. He snagged a pastry out of the box and pushed past Athos to meet the lad a few steps from his door.

“Well, hello stranger. I was beginning to worry you’d been kidnapped.”

A smile lifted one corner of d’Artagnan’s mouth. “That would have to involve the stupidest kidnappers in existence. Everyone I know is broke.”

“Not everyone,” Athos said.

Aramis highly doubted d’Artagnan hadn’t noticed Athos’ presence until he spoke up, but there was still a flicker of surprise across his face. He met Athos’ gaze beyond Aramis’ shoulder and smiled a little more crookedly.

“Everyone who would pay, that is.”

Without missing a beat, Athos repeated himself. “ _Not_ everyone.”

Despite the fact that he was delighted by the two spots of colour that flushed into d’Artagnan’s cheeks, Aramis came to his rescue anyway. Holding the pastry out to d’Artagnan, he twisted out of the way so he could motion towards Athos. 

“Don’t mind him. He’s throwing his money around this week.”

d’Artagnan laughed, grabbed the pastry, and nipped a bite from it. With a mouthful of flaky bread, he squinted at Athos and then tilted his head in consideration. “And yet...he’s still wearing that godawful coat.”

Aramis was especially glad he’d moved aside. If he hadn’t, he might have missed the magic of the next few seconds. Athos’ eyebrows flew upwards and his lips split apart. Along with a flash of teeth came the delightful sound of a completely sober Athos _laughing_ , unashamedly and without reservation.

Admittedly, it was a brief break in character. But it was no less charming. d’Artagnan grinned so wide in turn that Aramis momentarily choked on his own laugh.

“I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t hear it,” Aramis said finally, hooking an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “But back to where you’ve been hiding. Please.”

Munching away on his pastry for a moment, d’Artagnan’s eyes glazed over with a hint of sadness. Something on the carpet at their feet was suddenly very interesting, as well. For some reason, that was all the mental kick Aramis needed to remember what he’d forgotten in all of the last month’s activity. His face fell and he dropped his arm to squeeze at d’Artagnan’s bicep.

“ _Oh_. Oh, d’Artagnan. I am so sorry, my friend. I completely forgot the date.”

d’Artagnan smiled forgivingly and waved a hand. “It’s okay. Really. It was...better this year. My mum’s seeing someone now.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows, his mouth twitching in indecision. Should he smile? Should he commiserate? Conundrum. Thankfully, d’Artagnan recognised his distress and smirked, allowing Aramis to smile back.

“That’s good to hear.”

“It is, right? It _is_ good.” Complicated emotions swirled in d’Artagnan’s skittish gaze, but he squared his shoulders and smiled brighter eventually. “I’m glad she has someone. It’s been four years and..and he’s great. Nice. She’s happy.”

Aramis hummed noncommittally. It was entirely possible to want someone you loved to be happy, and still feel the tiniest bit of resentment about it when they did it without you. If d’Artagnan was still unprepared for his mother to move on, if _he_ was still unprepared to move on, then that was understandable. Aramis remembered the first few months of his acquaintance with d’Artagnan, immediately following the sudden death of his father. He remembered it all too vividly. The boy had barely been old enough to drink and his grief had been palpable, clinging to his every movement. Within a few weeks of the tragedy, Aramis had cautiously reached out to his new neighbour. A few words here, a smile there. It hadn’t taken much longer for d’Artagnan to be eating all of Aramis’ leftover takeaway and watching television late into the night with him.

Sometimes they’d talked. Sometimes they hadn’t. But d’Artagnan had slowly lost pieces of his misery until he was functioning again.

Feeling twice as bad for being absentminded about the anniversary, Aramis lowered his chin to give d’Artagnan a tender staredown.

“And how are _you_?”

“I’m--” d’Artagnan’s gaze skittered towards Athos, who stood watching with his eyebrows pinched together. No doubt he’d sorted most of the story out from context. The fact that he hadn’t excused himself from this conversation was either due to ingrained manners or genuine concern. Aramis knew Athos well enough now that he would have wagered his entire bank account on the latter.

“I’m...good. Better,” d’Artagnan insisted, not quite unlocking his gaze from Athos until he saw the flicker of a small, genuine smile in response. Only then did he smile crookedly back and resume eating.

Aramis lifted his eyebrows and clapped d’Artagnan on the back. He was absolutely reading into this exchange, but that couldn’t be helped. “Well, then. That’s good to hear as well. Were you on your way somewhere important just now?” 

d’Artagnan quickly swallowed down the last of his pastry and brushed his hands off on his jeans, shaking his head. “Just a bit of grocery shopping.”

“Excellent! That can certainly wait.” 

“Uh…”

“Yes, of course it can wait. You should meet Flea. You’ll love her. And when you become fast friends, you’ll - naturally - want to help her move!”

“Aramis…” Athos sighed.

“Shh, shh. We could use all the hands we can get. In and out, remember?” Aramis knew he was grinning obnoxiously, and abusing a complicated situation, but he really didn't feel all that terrible about it. “Besides,” he added, pulling d’Artagnan over to Athos’ side with him, “look at him. He’s young and fit. He’ll probably make us look like sad old men who can’t carry anything heavy without hurting ourselves.”

Athos lifted an eyebrow eloquently.

“Well, the two of us, anyway. Porthos could probably do it all with one hand behind his back and me drooling at his feet,” Aramis conceded.

 

* * *

 

They didn't get to test that particular theory, unfortunately. Even if drooling on the filthy landing outside Flea's flat would've been less than ideal, Aramis would've preferred it over meeting the infamous Charon while juggling a giant wooden hutch down the stairs. 

“The fuck is this? You stealing my stuff now, Porthos?”

Porthos grunted in surprise. Aramis peeked around Athos on the other side of the massive piece of furniture and watched Charon swagger up to the base of the stairs. He was good-looking. Confident, too. In a way that suggested he’d chosen his moment carefully. Flea was inside the flat and well out of hearing range.

“This is _Flea’s_ and you bloody hate it, anyway. Where the hell have you even--no, no. We’re not having this conversation while I’m at a disadvantage,” Porthos growled.

“What you need an advantage for, _brother_? It’s not enough that you stuck your fucking nose in where it didn’t belong?” 

“Why you--” The weight pressing down on Aramis’ chest, where the hutch was tilted back against him, suddenly got a lot heavier. Aramis made an involuntary noise of exertion that cut off Porthos’ enraged reply.

“Shit. Sorry, Aramis. Let’s get this down to the bottom.”

Thankfully, the three of them managed the rest of the steps without dropping the thing on their feet. 

Still, Charon hardly waited until the hutch was down flat on the floor before taking a swing at Porthos. His head snapped to the side as punch connected and he stumbled against the nearest wall.

“Hey!” Aramis lunged forward, fists already clenching, but Athos stepped into his path.

“Give it a second.”

“Get out of my way,” Aramis instinctively snarled. The sound of his own voice surprised him, and Athos too, apparently. Although, surprise on Athos was merely the subtle lift of both eyebrows. Still, he didn’t budge. He only squeezed the side of Aramis’ neck and leaned in to whisper his wisdom on the subject.

“Trust me when I tell you that he won’t thank you for getting involved on this one. Even to protect him.” Athos spared an unreadable glance for Charon who was advancing back towards Porthos. “I speak from experience.”

Aramis huffed out a furious breath. It was completely possible Athos was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. He liked to consider himself a non-violent person. A healer. But that was a lot of rubbish, honestly, when he would happily put a fist through Charon’s face for causing all of this and then having the audacity to strike Porthos. 

As if Aramis had spoken the urge out loud, Porthos looked at him and held a hand up. His eyes said ‘don’t worry, he’ll get his’, but his mouth said, “It’s alright. Everything’s fine.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Porthos. I was handling things. On my own,” Charon snarled. He tried to shove Porthos back against the wall, but Porthos sidestepped him and helped his momentum along with a kick in the ass. Charon bounced off the wall and spun back around. The two men circled each other.

“Is that what you call leavin’ Flea to deal with your mess? _Handlin’ things_?”

“Fuck you, hypocrite. You left her to join the army.”

There was an audible crunch. Porthos jabbed forward so fast, Charon was still saying the word “army” when his nose broke. His head snapped back and he lifted both hands to his face as he choked out a string of curses.

“I left her with _you_ , not a gang of murderers knockin’ on her door. You _abandoned_ her. You left her to answer for your stupid fucking choices. She had to ask me for help.” Porthos grabbed Charon by the shoulders and shook him, violently enough that Charon’s hands fell from his bleeding face. “You know how much she hates askin’ for help!”

Charon pushed Porthos away. And it was clear Porthos could have held on, could have kept rattling Charon in the hopes of knocking some sense into him, but he let go, anyway. He let go, and he stepped back, and he dropped his hands with a noise carrying all of his frustration. Of all the things that pained Aramis about this situation, the look on Porthos’ face, then, was the worst. 

He was heartbroken.

“They hurt her, Charon. And you’re comin’ at _me_?” Porthos whispered.

Unable to stand back any longer, Aramis squeezed past Athos. Thankfully, Athos didn’t try to stop him. He wasn’t even sure what he would’ve done if Athos had.

Porthos startled slightly when Aramis caressed up his back, but when Aramis’ hand curled up over his shoulder, Porthos reached over his chest to tangle their fingers together. The tension slowly started to drain out of him after that.

“I didn’t--” Charon jerked his head up when a door opened above their heads and the sound of feet stomping across the landing reached them. “She didn’t need to call you. I was _handling it_ ,” he hissed. Maybe he hoped Flea wouldn’t hear him. Maybe he just wanted the last word.

Whatever the case, he swiped a hand across his bleeding face and hurriedly walked backwards towards the door that led out into the alley. When Flea came into view at the top of the stairs, he lifted his arms, antagonising and dismissing at once.

“I told you I would fix it! I told you I would take care of us! But you just had to run off to your knight-in-shining-armour. Well, fuck you both. I hope you’re happy together.”

“Charon, don’t you dare walk out that door…” 

The sounds of the door slamming shut was the only response Flea got. As final as it sounded, Flea seemed more annoyed than anything else.

“He’s so bloody dramatic,” she sighed as she came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

Aramis snorted, surprised by her casualness. There was so much about this trio that he didn’t know. So much of their history that would probably shed light on everything going on. But it wasn’t his business. His business was Porthos, who lifted their still joined hands to kiss Aramis’ knuckles before releasing him.

“He kept saying he was handlin’ it. Any idea what trouble he’s gettin’ into now?” Porthos asked.

d’Artagnan came up behind Flea as she shook her head. “He doesn’t tell me anything. He says ‘I’ve got this’ and ‘don’t worry so much’. He doesn’t answer questions, he doesn’t answer his phone. And I’m just supposed to sit there and let him take care of things.”

“I’ve known you all of five minutes and I know that’s completely ridiculous,” d’Artagnan chimed in, adjusting the box in his arms.

Smirking at him over her shoulder, Flea shrugged. “It is ridiculous. And stubborn. He’s always been so hardheaded. I used to think it was an attractive quality in a man,” she added with a pointed stare in Porthos’ direction. “But I’ve grown up since then.”

Porthos lifted his hands defensively, a quiet laugh slipping through his shamefaced smile. “Hey, can we stay on topic here?”

Some of the tiredness around Flea’s eyes faded away with a smile, half-hearted as it might have been. “No. I’m done talking about Charon. Let’s just finish this. I have plans to meet up with some girlfriends and drink my weight in cheap wine tonight.”

Athos shivered dramatically, his face curling into a grimace, and Flea elbowed him as she headed back up to the flat. “It might even come in a box!”

Athos rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Ugh.”

 

* * *

 

The drive to Château-Thierry wasn’t terrible. Following behind the rented truck left Aramis’ car covered in mud and ice, but they took their time getting Flea to her cousin’s house, so it was about six when they were finally done unloading. Most of Flea’s things had to be put in a large storage shed in the back, though, and Aramis was quite sure he’d be feeling spiders in his hair for days. 

It didn’t help matters when Porthos kept tickling the back of his neck over dinner.

“I swear to God, Porthos, _if you do that one more time_ …” 

Porthos giggled and draped his arm over the back of Aramis’ chair. “What? What are you gonna do to me?”

Biting back the urge to smile, Aramis stabbed a biteful of salad and waved it at Porthos threateningly. “I don’t know, but you won’t like it!”

“Mm. I sincerely doubt that.”

Aramis wrinkled his nose and took a bite. He tried to chew forcefully, with narrowed eyes for added effect, but Porthos broke eye contact, leaning over to nuzzle behind his ear. “I knew I was in trouble at the airport when aggravatin’ you was just as much fun as makin’ you laugh.”

“How very romantic.”

Porthos laughed at the dry return, his teeth grazing the back of Aramis’ ear. “There’s no one in the world I’d rather annoy than you, Aramis.”

He said it like he was reciting poetry, for God’s sake. And it had much the same effect. Aramis twisted his head and captured Porthos’ mouth in a fervent kiss, feeling the answering hum of joy roll into his mouth, up and over his tongue, where it warmed him from the inside out. Forgetting about the others for a moment, Aramis grasped Porthos by the jaw and deepened the kiss.

“They’re not going to have sex right here at the table, are they?” d’Artagnan mock-whispered.

“How should I know?” Athos murmured back.

 

* * *

 

Aramis headed northeast instead of southwest when they left town. There was mildly annoyed commentary from the backseat, but somehow he managed to convince Athos that since they’re already halfway to Reims anyway, they might as well check out a bar Constance told him about. Well, perhaps convince was a strong word. 

“Constance. That’s your boss, correct?”

“My friend and the head nurse, yes.”

“So. Your boss.”

“The head nurse who I’ve known for many years, _yes_ ,” Aramis repeated stubbornly, earning him an amused smirk, partially visible in the rearview mirror. “She has family in Reims.”

“And what kind of bar is worth going out of our way in this weather?”

Porthos caught the sly glance Aramis sent him, thank God, and intervened. He turned in his seat and gave Athos the saddest pout Aramis had ever seen on a grown man. “It hardly matters. It’s been a long day, Athos. And my face hurts. I’d like to see this place, if it’s not too much trouble for you.”

Shifting in his seat, Athos sighed. “Leave the cheating to cards, Porthos.”

Porthos turned back around and flashed a crooked grin at Aramis. Stifling a laugh, Aramis put his attention back on the road. The snow was starting to pick up, but the roads were still fine and he wasn’t all that worried. 

But then, he was an eternal optimist.

 

* * *

 

“We’re already here and it’s bloody freezin’. Just get your arse inside, already.” 

Porthos nudged Athos through the door of L’Escalier to the unmistakable sound of someone belting out _Non, je ne regrette rien_ decidedly offkey. It took a bit more effort to get him to a corner booth, seeing as he childishly planted his feet and leaned back against Porthos with all of his weight, but eventually, they were all squashed in together and ordering drinks.

“You don’t have to sing, Athos,” Aramis grinned. 

The belligerent object of his teasing took a long drink of whatever expensive brandy he’d ordered before replying. 

“I’m so glad I have your permission, Aramis.”

Laughing, Aramis pressed against Porthos side, and like dominoes, Porthos pressed Athos into d’Artagnan. The lad didn’t blush. If anything, he leaned closer and gave Athos a commiserating look.

“If it helps, I don’t intend to get drunk enough to get up there either.”

“d’Artagnan...” Aramis scolded.

“You know I work in a bar, Aramis! I have to suffer through this crap three nights a week.”

Porthos sighed. “I thought for sure you’d be more fun than this, pup.”

“We’ll just have to keep him drinking,” Aramis whispered conspiratorially. 

“ _Someone_ has to stay sober.” 

Aramis eyed Athos around Porthos’ chest. “Worry not, my friend. I’ll be nursing this gin and tonic for at least an hour.”

“ _Nursing_ ,” Porthos barked, dissolving into infantile snickering. God, he was ridiculous. And perfectly so. Aramis laughed, and Athos and d’Artagnan rolled their eyes in unison, which only made the other two laugh a little harder.

It took about two hours, Porthos and Aramis singing a handful of cheesy songs, and a bit of masterful distraction if Aramis said so himself, but d’Artagnan did eventually get drunk enough to stumble on stage. He sang _Uptown Funk_. Badly, and with all the enthusiasm of a twenty-something riding the high of too many colourful drinks with catchy names. But, by the end, literally everyone in the bar _except_ Athos was singing and dancing along. To be fair, though, Athos was chuckling. Shaking his head and downing the rest of his latest drink, but definitely laughing.

When d’Artagnan returned to the table with drunken cheers all around, Porthos leaned over the table to go for a hug. He ended up headbutting him instead, but the sentiment was there.

 

* * *

 

“This is bad.” 

“Yes, d’Artagnan, thank you for that brilliant insight.”

Turning the key again resulted in the same painful grinding noise and then nothing. Aramis dropped his head to the steering wheel.

“It’s snowing a lot harder now.”

Aramis blew out an annoyed breath and turned to glare at the back seat. “Can you please stop stating the obvious?”

“I’m just saying. I don’t have my phone because you conscripted me unprepared. Athos doesn’t have any bars.” d’Artagnan leaned forward against the back of the passenger seat, peeking over Porthos’ shoulder, Porthos pocketed his phone with a defeated grunt.

“Nothin’ here either.”

Aramis had one bar, but any attempt to call out was met with silence. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” A gentle hand on the back of his neck stopped Aramis from banging his forehead repeatedly against the steering wheel. He glanced over at Porthos and frowned. “Maybe someone will spot us.”

“Considering you took a wrong exit at that roundabout back there and this road looks less used, I’d say it’s unlikely,” Athos offered, unhelpfully.

Rubbing Aramis’ neck, Porthos leaned over to flip the headlights back on. “Lemmie take a look. I’m good with cars.”

“You have no tools, no equipment, and the snow is piling up by the second.”

Porthos shot a glower back at Athos. “I realise it’s in your nature to be a giant pain in the arse, but could you _not_?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis watched Athos lift his hands palms out and then drop them to his knees, where he rubbed at the material of his jeans. It had already dropped ten degrees in the car with the heat not running. As much as the heater tended to smell, it was still welcome in frigid temperatures. Who even knew how cold it was going to get as the night wore on. 

Aramis shifted his attention back to Porthos, reaching out to rub a hand down his arm. He was grateful he’d insisted on coat shopping. Porthos’ new coat was a deep red military cut, and thick. Much warmer than the threadbare thing he’d been calling a coat. It had a hood, zippered into the back of the collar, too, which appealed to Aramis’ instinctive love for anything that reminded him of their first day together. The upturned collar rested just under his ears and it would protect him from the sharp gusts of wind outside the car.

All of that in mind, Aramis still winced at the idea of Porthos digging around under the hood in this weather. 

“Maybe Athos has a point.”

Porthos snorted and reached for the door handle. “Don’t fall down that slippery slope. First it’s maybe Athos has a point, and then it’s _life sucks, then you die_.” 

Climbing out of the car, Porthos shoved the door shut, past the snow drift that had already built up at the base of the car in the short time they’d been sitting still. He spent a few minutes under the hood, with Aramis turning the windshield wipers on so he could keep an eye on him, and then he finally hurried around to climb back inside. A hard gust of wind brought a flurry of snow in with him, and more cascaded from his hood as he pushed it back.

He was shivering as he settled back into his seat. Athos pointed out as much.

“What did I say? If you can only be zero help whatsoever, just sit back there and grump inside your own head.”

Aramis took Porthos’ gloved hands and rubbed them between his bare ones. His gloves were in his pocket, thankfully. He’d need them at this rate.

“Well,” he sighed. “I am sorry, gentlemen. It looks like we’re stuck. At least until the sun comes up and we won’t die trampling back to civilization.”

“Put your gloves on. All of you.” Porthos half-turned, getting a better look at the back seat. “Does that seat fold down?”

Aramis followed his gaze back over their shoulders, squinting in thought. The Renault Clio was fifteen years old and had a lot of faults, but there was actually plenty of cargo space. “It does.”

“Then we put it down and pile into the back. It’ll be a bit friendly, but body heat will do us some good.”

Knowing Porthos spoke from experience in a way Aramis had never had to suffer, he didn’t make any jokes. None of them did. Of course, that might have also been because they were all starting to feel the bite of the cold, already. But it still made the process of following Porthos’ instructions quick and only mildly awkward.

Knees. Knees were terrible things sometimes.

“A _bit_ friendly, he says,” d’Artagnan mumbled from in his squished spot between Athos and Aramis. Porthos laughed, spooning a little tighter against Aramis’ back. He had one leg tossed over Aramis, and part of d’Artagnan’s leg (more for lack of options than actual shamelessness), but Aramis wasn’t complaining. With Porthos at his back and d’Artagnan at his front, he was blissfully toasty. At least for the moment.

d’Artagnan wiggled for the tenth time, apparently struggling to get as comfortable.

“Please....stop...moving,” Athos hissed forcefully.

Silence descended in the car for all of a heartbeat before Aramis and Porthos burst into laughter. This close, with moonlight bathing through the back window, Aramis received an up-close-and-personal view of the blush that rose up from d’Artagnan’s neck, all the way into his hairline. His eyes clenched shut and he froze in place.

“Sorry, _sorry_.”

It wasn’t long after that before Aramis fell asleep, even with Porthos giggling quietly every few minutes and asking things like “you thinkin’ about the most boring shit you can come up with, Athos?” Athos only huffed in response, outside of the one time he reached over the two men between them and thumped Porthos in the head. Eventually the cold took over, drawing them into a tighter bundle in that tiny space, and Aramis’ brain simply shut off to conserve energy.

 

* * *

 

When he woke, he was surprised to find he was burrowed into d’Artagnan’s back, not his throat. Athos had an arm wrapped over the both of them. His other arm was snuggly curled under d’Artagnan’s neck, with his gloved hand covering the lad’s cheek, and the rest of d’Artagnan’s face was hidden under the lapels of Athos’ coat. 

Aramis’ brain woke up slowly after that, piece by piece. Porthos’ normally hot breath was lukewarm at the back of his neck and he was fairly sure some of his extremities were frozen through, but he was loathe to move. Outside it was calm, no snow flurries in sight, and very little wind buffeting against the car, but it would still be cold as all hell and they had quite the walk ahead of them.

Trying not to wake anyone, he carefully dug into his coat pocket for his phone.

Thoughtfulness went out the window, though, when he spotted three bars and let out an involuntary whoop. Porthos grumbled behind him, snuffling into his hair, and Athos squeaked one eye open as d’Artagnan whined.

“Shh, my apologies,” Aramis whispered. He quickly scrolled through his phone to his car service and bit back another cheer with the call actually connected. d’Artagnan whimpered a little louder, tucking in closer to Athos’ chest, so Athos covered his ear with a gloved hand and watched Aramis with eyes squinted against the sun.

A few minutes of explaining the situation, and giving their location, and Aramis hung up with a relieved smile. “Rescue is on the way.”

“Oh, thank fuck. My toes are like bricks. Walkin’ would have been miserable business,” Porthos hummed.

Aramis chuckled and rolled over. He wasn’t planning on making things awkward in the car, not any more awkward than they’d be when d’Artagnan woke and realised he was plastered to Athos. But, Porthos didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He cradled Aramis’ jaw between his fingers and dipped his head for a kiss. Once Aramis sighed against his lips, Porthos moved to trailing sloppy kisses down his neck.

“Mm. When we get home, I insist on properly warming every part of you,” Aramis murmured. “Even those toes.”

“Is that right?”

“I _am_ a medical professional, Porthos.”

Porthos laughed and sucked a mark into Aramis’ throat that would probably linger well passed the time their saviours arrived.

“You’re both terrible people,” Athos growled.

Porthos lifted his head to grin pointedly over Aramis’ shoulder. “Says the bloke who seems to be in no rush to wake up the kid in his arms.”

Athos didn’t respond right away, and when he did, it was with a confused sort of resignation in his hushed voice. “He’s comfortable...And he’s not a kid.”

Hiding his smile in the fabric of Porthos’ coat, Aramis cheerfully added, “He has a point, Porthos.”

Aramis was rolled over onto his back, as much as he could be, with a rumbling laugh above him and Porthos’ grinning face come back into view. “What did I tell you about that shit?”

“When the man is right, the man is ri--”

Porthos silenced Aramis with a laughter-tinged kiss and Athos sighed for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I DID research the areas around Paris, trying to find the perfect spot to have this idea work out, but eventually I got tired of looking at maps, so there was a tiny bit of handwaving in their return trip. ~Storytelling~ okay. Forgive me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos is a Terrible Patient. And Athos really is trying to be human. Honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been months and I'm very sorry. But I am going to finish this, I swear, and not in another five months from now.

It took five days for Aramis to get his car back in working order, thanks to a busy shop, terrible weather, and parts taking longer to ship than normal. In the meantime, Athos lent Aramis one of his cars.

 _One_ of his cars. 

That had been an entertaining conversation - Athos squinting belligerently and squirming under Aramis' wide-eyed stare, Porthos snorting laughter into his paper coffee cup, and the overworked mechanic behind the counter waiting impatiently for Aramis’ keys.

The car itself was nice, but not too flashy. Well cared for, sure, but in a joyless sort of way. There was nothing personal inside whatsoever. The radio presets weren’t even programmed, for God’s sake. 

Athos only rolled his eyes when Aramis asked if he drove everywhere in _complete silence_ or if he hummed showtunes. (Later, after he finally got fed up with Porthos snickering at Aramis' jokes, Athos explained that he inherited four cars and sold two, leaving one and a spare -"for practicality". Unfortunately for him, admitting that he preferred taking a taxi over driving either car only increased the ribbing.)

On day three of his ‘rental’, Aramis gave Porthos a ride to Athos’ flat and they fooled around over the center console for all of three seconds before Porthos said, “nope, too weird,” and fled the scene of the crime.

By the time his mostly-functional car was returned to him, Aramis was just fine handing the borrowed keys back to Athos. Not because he couldn’t grope Porthos inside of it - he wasn’t sixteen, thank you very much - but because there was an overwhelming stench of _responsibility_ clinging to the interior. He’d spilled a tiny splash of coffee on the driver seat the very first day and subsequently watched his entire life flash before his eyes.

Disappointing Athos was already high on Aramis’ list of Things to Avoid at All Costs. He wasn’t sure why.

Oblivious, Athos frowned at the keys in his hand. “You can keep it for awhile, if you like.”

“Thank you, Daddy Warbucks,” Aramis smirked. "But my car is fine."

“Your car is a tragedy waiting to happen.”

“Now, now, that’s not very nice. It has sentimental value!”

Athos raised his eyebrows slowly, clearly not buying the bullshit Aramis was selling. Aramis’ smile stretched into a sharp grin.

“Porthos gave me my _very first roadhead_ in that ca--Athos. You look like a frightened crab scuttling across the beach. Come back here.”

 

* * *

 

One week after their magical night in his Clio, Aramis learned something vitally important about Porthos du Vallon. 

He was a _giant whiny toddler_ when he got sick.

The evidence started trickling in not long after Aramis picked Porthos up at the end of another fruitless day looking for work in awful weather. Aramis had suffered through a rather long day himself, picking up an extra half-shift as the usual round of winter illnesses made its way through the hospital. If he’d known he was coming home to more of the same, he--well, he still would’ve dragged his exhausted self over the threshold, he just would’ve bought more wine first.

Porthos headed straight for the bedroom. Brilliant man, really. Genius. Aramis slipped out of his coat and kicked off his shoes as he followed, leaving a trail of ice and mud behind him.

“I’m sorry you had no luck, Porthos. I’m sure tomorrow will be much bett--”

Aramis cut off as he stepped into the room. Porthos’ long body was _mostly_ on the bed, but his booted feet hung off the side. The hood of his coat covered part of his face, where it had apparently flopped forward as he fell face first into the pillow. Humming a soft whimper, Aramis dumped his belongings at the foot of the bed. 

“Porthos, _mon cœur_ , you can’t sleep in all your damp clothes.” Aramis crouched by the bed and stroked a hand down the back of Porthos’ calf until he reached a boot and carefully tugged it off. The second one followed, then his socks. Porthos’ feet were _hot_ , which jerked Aramis’ gaze up the length of his body. Now that Aramis’ nurse brain had switched on. he noticed a ruddy sheen to Porthos’ skin.

He moved around Porthos’ legs and tugged the hood away. Porthos was flushed, and he shivered once, from head to toe, at the press of Aramis’ palms to his cheeks.

“Oh dear. You are warm. When was your last flu shot?”

There was a grunt for an answer, after Porthos buried his face further into the pillow.

“Hm. Well. We’ll have to remedy that soon. Not that it’ll help you _now_.”

Porthos mumbled something along the lines of ‘your face isn’t helpin' me now’.

“Glad to see your comeback skills are still puttering along. Just, let me...,” Aramis curled his fingers under the edge of Porthos’ collar and started to tug, “Just let me help you get comfortable, all right? Please, Porthos.”

It took several minutes of wriggling and grumping, and the most pathetic little huff Aramis had ever heard a grown man make, but eventually Porthos was fast asleep in a long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. Aramis woke him only long enough to force him to take something for his fever, then climbed into bed to curl up around him. He probably should have kept his distance to avoid catching the bug himself, but he received a flu shot regularly and had a hardy immune system. He blamed his niece, who seemed to have caught everything there was to catch between the ages of three and five. There was nothing like repetitive exposure to buff up the body’s defenses.

Still, he slept hard, no thought spared for dinner or that it was only eight in the evening. 

When he woke, the blanket was gone and there was a sweaty forehead pressed against his jaw. He groaned quietly, trying to scoot out from under the hot weight pressing him into the mattress. Porthos hardly moved, but since the sheet was wrapped crazily around his body, Aramis doubted he would have gotten far even if he tried. Not without some kind of circus performance, anyway.

Halfway free of his swampy prison, Aramis got a better look at his bedmate. A frown had taken up residence between Porthos eyebrows and looked like it wouldn’t be moving along anytime soon. His mouth hung open in a gaping pout. He was breathing from the back of his throat, nose likely stuffed already and soon to be dripping.

It was really quite a pitiable sight. And wretchedly endearing. Poor man, more ill by the second. Aramis suspected this particularly flu would be bending his boyfriend over in a much less enjoyable way than he might like.

Ah yes, his _boyfriend_. It was his right to care for Porthos and see him returned to good health. The natural order of things. Aramis smiled and went in search of the discarded blanket.

“Nghh...’Mis?”

Porthos would choose to wake up the moment Aramis was bent over the edge of the bed with his ass in the air. Well, at least he got a nice view. If the man had even bothered to open his eyes.

“Just a moment, Porthos,” Aramis grunted, grabbing the blanket by a corner and heaving it back up onto the bed. 

“Ugh, no. Get it away,” Porthos whined in turn. Flailing an arm, he rolled away from Aramis and nearly tumbled right off the other side of the bed, tangled sheet and all. Luckily, Aramis’ reflexes were quick. He latched onto one of Porthos’ shoulders and pulled him back into the center of the mattress.

“Good grief. Stay put.” Aramis chided. “Or do you _want_ a head injury on top of the flu?”

Dark, foggy eyes stared up at him. Porthos had the grace to look ashamed, but he rolled his face into Aramis’ chest and growled a cranky reply, anyway. “Well excuse me for not wantin’ to sweat to death.”

Aramis rolled his eyes affectionately. Kissing the top of Porthos’ head, he pulled the blanket over and tucked it around the large body stretched out against his own. A new round of grumbling was the only thanks he got, but since Porthos followed it up with a full body shiver, Aramis didn’t feel too bad. 

“Sweating is good, Porthos. Your fever is trying to break. Now I’m going to go get you some water. Don’t. Move.”

“Bossy nurse.”

“That’s right. And I’ll be incredibly put out if you’ve ditched this blanket before I return.”

“Make it a beer and I’ll happily stay where I’m at,” Porthos smirked weakly.

“Absolutely not.” Ignoring Porthos’ annoyed frown, Aramis climbed out of bed. “The last thing you need is something that will dehydrate you. Must I remind you that I am a--”

“--Medical professional,” Porthos cut in, his voice as lofty and superior as he could manage. At least it held a twinge of his usual good humour, bratty as it may have been.

“Hmph,” Aramis sniffed. “I think I’m going to enjoy force-feeding you the blandest soups you’ve ever tasted.”

When he left the room, it was to the sound of Porthos’ quiet chuckle turning into a cough.

 

* * *

 

Day Two of Porthos’ illness was long, all told. His fever would break, then come rushing back an hour later. He refused to follow Aramis’ instructions without complaining or making counter demands. Admittedly, some of his demands were amusing enough to dissolve Aramis’ irritation. But the cough that started out paper-thin bloomed into a chest-rattling echo and it left Porthos frail and whimpering no matter how brief it lasted, so Aramis had to be more unyielding. (“No, I won’t open a window.” “No, you can’t sleep on the bathroom floor.” “Look, if you refuse to cooperate, I can just go into work on my day off and take care of _less frustrating babies_.”) 

It didn’t really change anything. If Aramis left the room for more than a few minutes, Porthos whined. If Aramis laid too close to him for too long, Porthos whined. If the water was too cold or the soup was too hot or a stray beam of sunlight came anywhere near his face, Porthos _whined_.

Athos called in the evening and Aramis answered with a dramatic sigh.

“Well. That’s new,” Athos replied.

“Porthos has come down with something.”

“Ah.” Dry amusement drifted across the line. “In that case, good luck and godspeed. I’ll try back in a week.”

“Funny.” Aramis pinched his nose, then peeked into the bedroom to confirm Porthos was still sleeping fitfully in a nest of bedclothes. The quiet drone of the bedroom television was no contest against his congested snoring. “You’ve been through this before.” 

“A few times. Thankfully, he doesn’t get ill very often. But when he does...”

“He’s _impossible_ ,” Aramis concluded.

Athos chuckled, the clink of ice in a glass subtle but present in the background. “I would’ve said fucking insufferable, but close enough.”

Smirking, Aramis rested his shoulder against the doorway. “Any suggestions?”

“Beyond knocking him unconscious? Not really.”

Aramis frowned. “You’ve knocked him unconscious?”

“Well, yes. But that’s a story for another time. I meant with medication, Aramis.” 

“Oh. Yes. I’ve been giving him Panadol for his fever. I need to go pick up something for his other symptoms, but--”

“He’s been clingy even when he tells you to _please go away for fuck’s sake_.”

Aramis snorted and turned towards the kitchen. “Oh good, it’s not just me.”

“No. But if it helps, he’ll be aggressively apologetic when he’s healthy again.”

“Aggressively, huh? Is that what happened in Brussels?” 

“Nice try. I’m not spilling that particular tale until Porthos is well enough to suffer through it.”

Aramis laughed a heatless insult and cracked open the fridge. “Fine. Tell me another story, then. Tell me a story about you.” 

A few silent moments passed, during which Aramis mindlessly dug through the fridge. Eventually. Athos’ voice came back sounding closer, like he’d gotten comfortable and the phone was shoved between his chin and shoulder. It was oddly easy to picture him stretched out on the sofa, swirling liquor around in his glass like some kind of secret agent during down time.

“When I was twelve, my parents decided I was too old for a children’s birthday party. I didn’t agree, but I was still under the impression that one did not argue with one’s parents.”

Aramis snorted. “Athos.”

“Do you want to judge a twelve year old or do you want to hear the story?”

“All right, all right,” Aramis laughed, pulling sandwich fixings from the fridge and dumping them on the counter. “Please, continue.”

“Thank you. So. My parents began planning this ridiculously posh affair. Linen tablecloths that the children would get reprimanded for staining. Expensive champagne for the parents. The really shameless china, not just the good kind. I’m sure you get the point.”

Utterly transfixed by this many words out of Athos already, Aramis stayed mute and distractedly built a ham and cheese sandwich on the counter.

“My brother, Thomas, was eight and...well, suffice to say he was accustomed to getting his way. It was an especially hot summer and he wanted a pool party. He never bothered to ask what I wanted. I think the fact that it was my birthday was somewhat of a secondary concern…”

After a dramatic pause, Athos said, “But to be fair, I wanted a pool party.”

Aramis chuckled. Piling his sandwich on a plate, he carried it over to the sofa and eased down into a crossed-legged perch as Athos continued.

“Thomas bribed the staff to help smuggle a half dozen pre-teens into the house while my parents were at some function or another. I remind you, he was _eight_. But throwing money at a problem was practically a sunday school lesson in our house.”

Even chomping away on a mouthful of sandwich, Aramis could hear the bitter edge to Athos’ voice. It lessened as he spoke, but it was still there, under the surface. Also a story for another time, perhaps. Or one too big to tell in one sitting. Aramis wouldn’t press. Well, not yet anyway.

“He talked me up onto the roof of our two story house. I don’t even remember how. All I remember is running for the edge, the water rushing up to meet me, and swallowing, what felt like, half of the pool. Shockingly, I survived.”

“No, really?” Aramis teased.

What he wouldn’t have given to see Athos’ face as he sighed petulantly and pushed on. 

“ _I survived_ , but more importantly, I was a bloody _hero_. They all cheered. Thomas had stars in his eyes. God help me, I had impressed my little brother.”

“Uh oh. I get the feeling that’s where things went wrong for Young Athos.”

“Apparently, you have passable intuition. Even if you are a terribly rude audience.”

Aramis laughed and set his plate to the side. “You gave it another go, didn’t you…”

“I did. And I tripped on a cracked tile. Luckily, I caught the edge of the roof with my face.”

“ _Oh my God_ \--”

“--No, no, I’m fairly sure I would’ve plunged two stories, head first into cement, if the roof hadn’t slowed me down. I landed on the second floor balcony, instead. Which was little more than a narrow strip surrounded by wrought iron, but it stopped the freefall of a crying twelve year old well enough...I spent two months with my jaw wired shut, but at least I lived to regret it.”

“Athos.” Torn between suffering the guilt of laughing and wishing Athos were close enough to hug, Aramis settled for snorting and holding the phone closer to his ear. “That is a _terrible story_.”

“Yes. Well. You didn’t specify.”

Aramis did laugh then, because he could hear the smirk in Athos’ voice as easy as seeing it first hand. The snickering trickled away as he stared up at the ceiling and then hummed, thoughtfully.

“I suppose that explains why you’re afraid of heights…”

“I’m not afraid of--oh. You’re mocking me.” Athos’ sigh didn’t sound especially put out. More ‘accustomed to friends prying’ than anything. “You think I’m terrified of risk.”

“No.” Even though Athos couldn’t see it, Aramis shook his head. “I think you’d risk everything for someone you care about, without a second’s hesitation. But risk for the sake of yourself? That seems far more unlikely.”

“I didn’t realise I’d signed up for a therapy session.”

Aramis smiled, patient as ever when the mood struck. “I haven’t suggested you need to _do_ anything about your fears.”

“But you’re going to.”

“Well… _perhaps_.” Aramis chuckled. “But I care about you, so I believe any advice I give you falls under the purview of annoying friend.”

“Aramis…,” Athos breathed out.

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you and I haven’t earned that story yet, but I know you’re carrying a deep wound. I know you’re lost, Athos. Especially without the short list of people in your life giving you some kind of emergency to handle. Blame my _passable intuition_ if you like.” The grunt that vibrated through the earpiece reminded Aramis so much of Porthos that his mouth twitched with fondness. “All I’m saying is, you need to take care of yourself. Live your life, not just suffer it. And, ironically, that might involve stepping off a ledge or two at some point. For _you_ , not for someone else.”

The line went silent. Aramis could still hear Athos breathing, but the silence lasted long enough that he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for Athos to hang up on him. Just punishment for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong and a quick end to this torture.

“I’m...not making any promises,” Athos finally whispered. “But I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Grinning his relief, Aramis climbed to his feet. “That’ll be three hundred euro, please.”

Athos huffed a surprised laugh. “Don’t push your luck.”

 

* * *

 

Later, much too late for Aramis to still be awake honestly, Porthos settled back against the bed after his latest coughing fit died down and he stared across the space between the bed and the chair Aramis was curled up in. His fingers curled absentmindedly into the sheets at his side. 

“Aramis...,” he croaked.

Aramis lifted one eyebrow over the top of his dog-eared copy of _The Little Prince_ , but he didn’t take his eyes off the page.

“You should take the bed. You’ve got work tomorrow and you need your res--”

Porthos got halfway to a sitting position with his back hunched and his feet shifting towards the edge of the bed before Aramis was there, pressing him back down into the pillows.

“I swear, if you move out of this bed without my say so, I will tie you to the bedposts,” Aramis hissed. The gentle brush of his hands over Porthos shoulders, up over his damp neck, softened the threat, but it still carried authority. Porthos just sagged against Aramis’ hip, all loose-limbed and full of trust. 

“Mm. Promise?” he growled.

“Don’t get too excited. You can hardly hold your head up.”

Easily disengaging Porthos’ limp grip on his waist, Aramis kissed his knuckles and went about settling him back into the covers. He swept a pile of tissues into the trash while he was there, double-checking that there was still plenty in the box on the nightstand. There were, but the cup of water nearby needed to be refilled. It was nearly time for a second dose of cough medicine, anyway.

“So you’ll do all the heavy-liftin’ and I’ll make it up to you later,” Porthos smirked, eyebrows cocked in some sort of half-assed suggestive waggle.

Aramis snorted unattractively. “No. Absolutely not. You’re all snotty and sweaty and full of phlegm.”

Porthos pouted. And really, he was very good at that. Especially when his gaze was heavy-lidded and unfocused. Of course, the next round of coughing ended with Porthos curled around Aramis’ side, face scrunched and chest heaving in pain, so any temptation Aramis felt went right out the window.

“I hate to say I told you so, but...I told you so,” Aramis smirked. “Now, I’m going to get your medicine. And you are going to _sleep_.”

That Porthos didn’t argue this time only further cemented the fact that he was weary down to his bones. He did manage to grab a fistful of Aramis’ shirt, as Aramis started to move away from the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos whispered. “I know I’ve been a pain in the arse...I promise this doesn’t happen often. And I swear, soon as you say I’m able, I’ll get back to lookin’ for a job.”

Feeling that familiar twinge in his chest - the one he’d labelled ‘Porthos’ and drawn hearts around in his mind’s eye - Aramis climbed back into the bed on his knees.

“I know, Porthos. It’s okay. There’s no rush.” 

“I just don’t want you thinkin’ this is normal. That you picked up some needy, jobless deadweight. I’ve still got savings left, and I can--”

“Porthos, shut up.” Aramis thunked Porthos in the shoulder with his fist and Porthos’ worried gaze flicked up to his face in surprise. “You are not a _burden_. You just have the flu, for God’s sake. ” 

Leaning over, he cradled Porthos’ face between his hands and scattered kisses across his face, lingering over the barely healed scar on his cheek. He pulled back with a doting smile. “I mean, you really are the worst patient. But God help me, I still love taking care of you.”

Porthos smiled, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He looked so _relieved_. But before that thought could clamp down around Aramis’ heart, Porthos’ hand crept up over his bent leg and settled on the curve of his ass.

“You love takin’ care of me, huh?” Porthos’ smile teetered between affectionate and devious. Aramis threw his head back and laughed.

“ _Worst_ ,” Aramis chirped happily, landing a peck on Porthos’ forehead. “Get your groping in while you can, miscreant. I’m still going to fetch your medicine.”

With a pitiful sigh, Porthos let his hand flop back to the mattress. “Alright, fine. Drug me. Just get some sleep for yourself too, okay?”

“As you wish, Porthos.”

 

* * *

 

On Day Three, Athos took over as nurse without being asked. He just showed up as Aramis was leaving, bottle of wine in one hand, laptop case in the other. Aramis stopped in the doorway, coat only half on, and hugged Athos until he muttered something about regretting this already. 

Knowing Athos was there at the flat made Aramis’ day much easier to bear. That and the dozens of texts he got from Porthos and Athos each, demanding a third opinion on something they were arguing about or just complaining about each other in general. Aramis smiled for ten minutes straight after the ‘ice cream is/is not medicinal’ debate (eventually siding with Porthos, while texting Athos an apologetic _I’ll pick some up on the way home_ ).

Even the weather seemed to mellow out right along with his mood. It was still offensively cold, but Aramis drove home on nearly dry streets. A gorgeously visible sunset blanketed Paris in soft colours and the heater in the car only sputtered _once_. 

Frankly, he nearly hummed on his way up the stairs to his flat, but it was a good thing he didn’t. As his approach was silent, outside of shifting the grocery bag from his right arm to his left, Aramis came up on the open apartment door without drawing the attention of the two men talking just inside.

“If it’s too last minute--”

“It’s not that...”

“It’s weird, I get it. I don’t know why I ordered so much. I knew Porthos was sick--There was just, it was on discount and I am… _embarrassingly_ my mother’s son when anyone says _sale_. I get all glassy-eyed and whip out my wallet like some kind of--”

“ _d’Artagnan_.”

Aramis hovered a few yards away from his door, eavesdropping without an ounce of shame. It was hardly his fault they left the door open. He shuffled a little closer as he realised Athos was speaking again but quietly enough to miss.

“--have dinner with you. It’s simply that I don’t--I’m not--” Athos exhaled loudly. “You must realise that I am the last person you should be wasting such an invitation on.”

“What? Why?”

“Because...well, _because_.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s not even in the vicinity of a reason.”

Athos sputtered - and Aramis had to stop himself from stepping forward just to see what a flustered Athos looked like.

“Because... _because_ I’m at least ten years your senior. And you could do so much better, it’s laughable,” Athos hissed.

“Okay, one, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. And two...it’s just dinner, Athos. It’s not like I’m asking you to bend me over the kitchen table.”

Aramis must have made a strangled noise, because suddenly two heads were peeking out around the doorway. Athos’ face was flushed red. He threw his head back with a sigh and disappeared again within a second, but d’Artagnan stepped out and glared half-heartedly at Aramis.

“You have really awful timing.”

Bubbling over with laughter, Aramis waved the keys in his hand and forced out a breathless reply. “I’m sorry, but I do in fact _live here_.”

d’Artagnan huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “How much did you hear? Because that was actually going really well until I asked him to come over!”

Aramis tried to get his wheezing laughter under control for his young friend’s sake and not just because Athos was likely plotting his murder just inside.

“I’m sure it was, d’Artagnan. I mean, I barely heard anything at all, but it seemed like a very charming conversation.” Patting d’Artagnan on the shoulder, he squeezed past him and hurried into the apartment. “Just pretend I was never here!” Aramis added, mostly for Athos’ sake. 

Not that it mattered much, since Athos was coming out of the bedroom and grabbing his laptop bag like a man escaping a sinking ship. Aramis set down his things and snagged Athos by the shirtfront before he could flee out the door.

“ _Hey_.”

Athos kept his gaze on some distant spot on the wall behind Aramis and muttered, “Porthos is feeling a little better. No fever for at least four hours now. I gave him a dose of the cough syrup an hour ago and a bowl of the soup you made. I’ll...be at home if you need anything.”

“Athos.”

Something about Aramis’ tone seemed to sap the tension right out of Athos, because he slumped against Aramis’ hand.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But you don’t need to run away, either,” Aramis whispered. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine.”

Athos turned his head, meeting Aramis’ gaze with a heavy one of his own. He seemed to be asking a question, but Aramis wasn’t sure even Athos knew what it was. d’Artagnan apparently got tired of loitering awkwardly outside the door, anyway. He leaned inside with his hands propped against the frame.

“Hey. So. I’m gonna...go. If anyone gets hungry, they’re welcome to come by--”

d'Artagnan dropped his hands and started to turn away. Aramis thought to stop him, but Athos beat him to it.

“ _d’Artagnan_. Do you…..”

And then there was nothing. No, nothing would probably have been an improvement. Instead, it was a stretch of the world’s most awkward silence as Athos stood there with a hand slightly raised, eyebrows furrowing then flaring out then back in again. d’Artagnan lifted his eyebrows, but when Athos only cracked his mouth a little wider and then closed it in a tight line, he snorted. 

“...Like...meerkats?” Athos finally asked.

Apparently, that broke the seal, because d’Artagnan’s snort morphed into a wheezing, full-bodied snicker.

Athos glared. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying my discomfort.”

d’Artagnan choked, laughing even harder, but he valiantly tried to squeeze out a few words. “I’m sorry...but _do you like meerkats_?!”

That was enough to drag Aramis down with him. Poor, innocent bystander that he was. He did manage to turn his head and laugh into his fist, but Athos narrowed frustrated eyes at him anyway. 

Ignoring Aramis’ unapologetic shrug, Athos swiveled back to d’Artagnan. “It’s not--it’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” d’Artagnan grinned. “Utterly sensible. Not weird at all.”

When d’Artagnan failed to say anything _more_ , Athos blew out a long breath and gestured defensively towards the laptop bag at his hip. "When Porthos is under the weather, it calms him to watch old episodes of Meerkat Manor." 

"Oh my God...," Aramis' cooed. "Hey! Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because it took three years to figure out that coping mechanism and I am a selfish bastard who thought you should have to work for it."

Aramis scoffed in mock outrage, but Athos just gave him the same unapologetic shrug he’d dished out moments before.

d’Artagnan eyed the laptop bag. “Wait, so. Are you asking if I want to curl up around your laptop with a mountain of Thai food and three grown men - one of which is sick?”

“I…,” Athos tightened his grip on the strap at his shoulder. “I suppose that is ridiculous.”

“Completely,” d’Artagnan agreed. A heartbeat later, he smirked. “...Sign me up.”

The anxiety in Athos’ face slipped away, replaced by a slow smile. 

d’Artagnan grinned brightly back and pointed towards the hall. “Just give me ten minutes to cart everything over here. It really is a stupid amount of foo--”

“Oi!” Came a rough shout from the bedroom, not nearly as loud as Porthos at full strength, but loud enough to interrupt. “Did you pricks leave me to wither away and die all alone in here?”

Aramis rolled his eyes. “I’ll take care of Cranky & Infected. Athos, go lend our generous friend a hand. Or _two_.”

 

* * *

 

d’Artagnan ended up bringing over food and something called a chromecast dongle. The latter got a childish giggle out of a medicated Porthos and it let them set up comfortably in the living room, so it was a win-win as far as Aramis was concerned. They watched three hours of cute rodents (‘they’re in the _mongoose_ family’, Athos said, twice - like a jaded primary school teacher - which only made Aramis want to call them pseudo-squirrels so he could watch the skin between Athos’ eyebrows pinch in irritation). 

Porthos dipped in and out of sleep, spread out in the overstuffed chair in the corner. The Meerkat treatment worked wonders and he smiled much more than he whined. Eventually Aramis squished in along his side, careful not to put too much pressure on his chest. Their legs and feet tangled, though, on the ottoman in front of them.

That left the sofa to d’Artagnan and Athos, who started out on opposite ends. By the end of the third hour, d’Artagnan had claimed Athos’ lap as a pillow and Athos dozed off with one hand tangled in d’Artagnan’s shirt. Aramis didn’t take a picture, but he thought about it.

When the latest episode ended and silence sank into the room, Porthos twitched awake.

“Do you want me to start another?” Aramis asked.

Porthos smirked at the sofa and its occupants, then draped his arm over the back of Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him in snug.

“Nah. This is good,” he mumbled against Aramis’ temple.

“It is.” Aramis rested his cheek against Porthos, nuzzling into his henley. “But I should get your medicine.”

“Take a break, nurse. You’ve done more than enough.” 

Pulling back, Aramis nudged Porthos’ chin with a knuckle so he could get a good look at him. In the dim light of the tv, he looked much better than he had. His eyes were still murky, but he didn’t waver as he leaned in to kiss the edge of Aramis’ mouth.

The move jogged a memory. 

“Oh!” Aramis gasped, then dropped to a whisper when d’Artagnan shifted on the sofa. “I forgot. I bought ice cream.”

Porthos brightened, like the sun peeking out through storm clouds. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely. And may I just say, the odd _looks_ a man gets for buying nothing but a box of ice cream bars in the middle of winter. You’d think I’d grabbed a giant tub of frosting and a turkey baster.”

Sputtering a throaty laugh, Porthos let his forehead fall against Aramis’ cheek. “Well, thank you. For bravin' the judgmental frozen foods section, just for me.”

Aramis grinned and stroked the side of Porthos’ face. “You’re welcome. What was it you said?” His voice dropped to a cheeky murmur. “Ah, yes. You can make it up to me later.”


End file.
